The Change
by Desdemona Kakalose
Summary: He always thought the world needed a reset button, he just didn't know what that really entailed. When the world collapses, when the tides change, sometimes shifts in power are ineffable. An apocalypse complete with cannibalism and a peculiar love story.
1. Lights Out

_The Change_

_Summary_: the world is wicked, the world is cruel. No one knows this better than humanity's emotional sewer system, Johnny C. But floods are a thing of the past, and the world is spiraling out of control, and it seems like maybe, this time, the lights have gone out for good.

_Story:_a crossover of Johnny the Homicidal maniac, "Dies the Fire", Invader Zim, and misc. names and places. In which the old world ends, and a new world begins.  
_  
Leading characters_: Johnny C., Devi D, and Todd 'Squee' Castil.

_Warnings_: Murder, language, references to cannabalism, speculation on religion, and of course Johnny C. himself.

* * *

_Death and the Lady rode through the hills,_

_Like a bowshot in the dimming light..._

March 15th, 1998

The street was empty and silent, like a madman absorbed in his own mind—a calm before the storm. Lights burned in more than one window despite the late hour, their torch-glow reflecting off wet pavement. A lone figure broke the stillness. Johnny C., dripping in blood, gallivanted through the quite neighborhood, looking wildly terrified or furious, depending on how much you knew about his last half-hour.

His door flew open, and Johnny charged into his own house with all the delicacy of an avalanche. The door crashed closed behind him, pulled to by his hoofed boots. Safe at last from the itching horror of the outside world.

"Interesting night?" snickered a voice across the room. "Did poor old Nny bite off more than he could chew?"

"Shut the fuck up," he shot back, preoccupied with the blood on his gloves. "I'm still not talking to you."

"Which means," the voice countered, "I'll be doing the talking for both of us."

There was, Johnny reflected, really no rest for the wicked. The murderer strode across the floor, all things forgotten in his irritation. He snatched an evil looking pig statue off his desk, and its grin- impossibly -seemed to stretch wider, sucking away what little warmth filled the dank room.

"I am so _tired_ of you yakking away _all the fucking time_! Here I thought I was supposed to be getting saner, and yet still you talk, like a windup doll from the lowest depths of Hell! Cut to the _chase_ for once in your miserable existence!"

Twin lights burned in the ceramic monster's eyes. "Oh, I dare say that the chase is coming. Wait a little longer, Johnny-boy. But I do have a warning for you—a last bit of advice, seeing as we'll be parting soon, and I would so hate to leave you empty handed after all that we've been through."

"You're leaving?" The insomniac's eyes flew wide open, uncomprehending. Freedom? The concept dangled over him suddenly, like Tantalus's fruit hanging above a starving man.

"Indeed I am. Wasn't that the first thing I told you? 'Our time is short'. Of course, it lasted longer than expected, but all for the better. So here's my last bit of wisdom. Heed it or don't, it's your funeral. I hope you will, though, in light of all the progress we've made on your emotions."

'We'. Johnny snorted. The horrible little thing _would_ like credit for that, wouldn't it? He might have been forced to reconsider his stance the whole 'emotion' subject (and grudgingly at that), but he certainly hadn't caved into the Reverend's obscene insistance.

"You see, Nny, the world is about to go crazy. So very, utterly mad, that you're going to look like a Girl Scout by comparison. My advice to you is this: go buy some astronaut food, for the love of God. Steal some edible plants. You might want to clean out your basement too, just in case you need somewhere to hide." And then the statue cackled.

The murderer was silent for a long moment. "…Are you fucking _kidding _me? Should I go out on the street corner and carry a big sign that says 'The End Is Near! My headvoice told me so!'—is that what you want?"

"Don't be so melodramatic. Think of it like this: I'm leaving for good. All these things I'm telling you to do are payment for having a clear head. I can't leave until you're prepared."

Was it telling the truth? Fuck. There was no way to tell. But if there was one thing Johnny knew, it was that he wanted to be the only one inside his head for once in his life. He wanted to know what it felt like. Some knives and dehydrated food were definitely worth that.

"Fine." He dropped the statue back onto the table with a dull thud. "Though how you know this, I can't imagine."

"Trade secret!" The vile thing laughed.

Johnny left the room.

* * *

_Dear Die-ary,_

_I've been having these flashes lately. It's unsettling. On the one hand, I feel saner than I ever have—rational, self-controlled. On the other hand, the Rev. is still as loud as ever and now he's telling me to stock up for the post-apocalyptic-world-of-tomorrow. On top of all that, there are the flashes._

_Sometimes, they feel like memories. Maybe they're from my past. They're simple things, old fashioned things. Like I was some kind of Amish person before I lost my mind. Plowing and planting. Hunting, carriages, churning fucking BUTTER. There's a woman and a kid, sometimes. I don't know if they're my family or not. I kind of hope not. The woman was dead once._

_Other times, they feel like scenes from the type of movie that I might go to see. Yesterday, one hit me. I was looking down at my hands, white and skeletal and long. Not much different, I guess, except for the skin tone. I had a scythe in one hand, and there was grass all around me. Maybe it was wheat. I've never even seen wheat before. I swung the thing, and I knocked off the fuzzy parts of the stalks. Then the field started screaming. I swear to god, the plants were shrieking and cursing at me, and I didn't know what was going on except that I had to keep harvesting, no matter how many screams I heard._

_I guess it was a dream or something. These dreams scare me more than any I've ever had. And I can't stop them by not sleeping. Fuck, I wish I could. I wish I knew... something. Anything.  
_

_I'm gonna go buy some fucking astronaut food._

-March 16, 1998

* * *

"I've lost my mind. Or whatever's left of it," Johnny muttered to himself, standing in line at the Wall-To-Wall-mart.

"No kiddin'," snorted the guy behind him.

Johnny turned to see a black-haired youth—early teens—with a gravity-defying upswept lock of hair. His thoughts jumped back to his vision of the scythe in the wheat field. Could he use this guy's hair as a weapon? It would be a nice change of pace. He'd always wanted to kill someone with their own hair.

The kid must have noticed the maniacal look, because he took a small step back and grimaced apologetically. "Sorry," he said, "that sounded really rude. I thought you were making a joke. Sometimes I just talk without thinking- you can ask my sister. Honest to Cthulhu."

An apology. Hm. Apologies were very unusual outside of his basement, and he hadn't even hurt this guy yet. The old Johnny probably would have killed him anyways, but the new Johnny…

The new Johnny was a nearly free man with an arm load of astronaut food.

The kid would live.

So he reached the front of the line, purchased his water bottles and dried food, stabbed a door attendant for first assuming that he stole those things and then making a crude comment about hiding in a bunker with stocked foods and magazines of the illegitimate kind, and went home.

As he walked through the streets with bags in hand, he glanced up at the sky. A lovely March day, sun shining, crust of snow glittering and dissolving on the grass. The world was actually a beautiful thing, when you took humanity out of the equation. A model of efficiency, everything evolved to virulence, balanced and counterbalanced.

And then some asshole across the street screamed something about fags with shopping bags.

'_Rotten_', Johnny thought to himself for the thousandth time. '_The whole world is rotten. If only the people would just… go away. Things would set themselves right_.'

Well, maybe not _all_ the people. He didn't want to die again, and there were some people in the world who deserved to live. He knew one or two personally. He'd even killed one.

The memory, faded and fractured, made him sigh sadly. If it hadn't been for that fucking wall, none of this would have happened. He'd have more to hold on to than some bitter memories and a burning hatred of humanity.

Another sigh. He was too depressed even to go across the street and kill the asshat who insulted him.

Instead, he walked on.

* * *

_Dear Die-ary_

_It would be different if I actually was a fag. Or a shoplifter. Or a Satanist. Or one of those other insults. I mean, I'd still kill them, but at least they'd be accurate. Instead they make all these fucking assumptions. They don't know me, they have no right to judge me. Especially if they're going to judge wrongly. I feel like I've been running in circles for thousands of years. I'm so done with this shit. I bought a Marilyn Manson CD today, because some lady on the street corner told me not to. I showed it to her, then I used it to slice her head open. But the songs are kind of decent. It's not Ode To Joy, but it's not rap. Am I more coherent than I used to be? It feels like it. Or maybe I'm worse than I ever was. I need some skettios._

_-March 17, 1998_

* * *

The TV blared at mind-numbing decibels, casting the tattered couch with a bluish light. The only light in the house, actually. And on the worn seat lay Johnny, spaghettios in hand.

_"There is darkness about! It blocks out the sun! What is it?"_

_"IT'S YOUR GINORMOUS ASS!"_

The murderer laughed wildly. He wasn't even sure what he was laughing at, except that he felt compelled to. Typical evening in number 777. The television set glowed red and the announcers grew louder—the show was back on. Johnny changed the channel.

Pain! Like a shot of the sun in a black cave, like blinds sprung open the morning after a hangover-

Without warning, a white light flashed through his eyes, literally _through_, brighter than a thousand suns. Pain shot through his body like millions of nails driven in at once. He had a half second to wonder if this was how his victims felt, before both the pain and light subsided into nothing.

He was alone, unharmed, and his house was completely dark.

A thousand questions ran through his head. Why? What exactly just happened? Would his television be okay?

That sort of thing.

Eyes quickly acclimating to the dimness, he skittered into his kitchen for a candle. He liked candles, but he never had a reason to use them, so they tended to build up in one drawer or another. And in his refrigerator. The wick was lit, and he returned to his couch to finish off those spaghettios, and stare blankly into space wondering what that light had been.

It hadn't been 'light' exactly. It came at him from every direction, brighter than anything he'd seen before, even when he'd visited Heaven.

If he really had visited Heaven.

Eventually, curiosity got the better of him, and he dared to venture forth from the safety of his living room, past the swinging noose and all the way to his front door. Now here was the dilemma: in the last two days, he'd been out of his house as many times. He often went a week before leaving. Was it really a good idea to get out into the world a third time?

What the hell. It was just his front porch.

The door creaked open, revealing an odd sight. The oddity did not lie in the addition of something foreign—oh no, it lay in the lack of something so common place, so menial, that the mind cannot even comprehend its discrepancy for a few precious seconds.

The lights were out.

_And maybe_, a side of him wondered, alone in the all-too-natural darkness, _just maybe, they're out for good_.

ToBeContinued


	2. Old Flame

_The Change_

_Summary_: the world is wicked, the world is cruel. No one knows this better than humanity's emotional sewer system, Johnny C. But floods are a thing of the past, and the world is spiraling out of control, and it seems like maybe, this time, the lights have gone out for good.

_Story:_a crossover of Johnny the Homicidal maniac, "Dies the Fire", Invader Zim, and misc. names and places. In which the old world ends, and a new world begins.  
_  
Leading characters_: Johnny C., Devi D, and Todd 'Squee' Castil.

_Warnings_: Murder, language, references to cannibalism, speculation on religion, and of course Johnny C. himself.

Author's note: Squee's heratage: Scottish and a couple Native American tribes. Casil is actually a Native American last name, so...

* * *

_...One steed as white as the stars,_

_The other as black as the night..._

Johnny wandered through town, looking for lights. There were none, though; there were no out of season Christmas lights, no computer screens, no bedroom lamps, and no neon at the neighborhood 24/7.

But the moon was never brighter.

So his feet led him towards the city's core, searching for some remnant of the modern world. He passed one or two abandoned cars in the road. Careless drivers.

It was fairly late, and he supposed most people would be either asleep or in a club, so no surprise in the otherwise empty streets. Or perhaps not so empty. Up ahead, he heard voices. Screaming voices, muttering voices. He thought he saw a light too.

As he turned the corner, it all became clear.

There, at the bottom of a large hill, lay the smoke-belching remains of two cars. The fire inside gave off the only luminance in sight, and people had congregated about it in a worried, milling throng.

The same macabre fascination gripped him as well, despite his contempt for the idiots who rubbernecked this sort of scene, and he found himself peering over the shoulders of random people for a better look. It looked like one car had barreled down that hill and hit the other as it crossed the road, but that was simply a guess. The things were far too crumpled to tell anything for sure.

A sudden shower of sparks sent the mob scuttling back on its heels, and Johnny slinking back into the darkness to continue his search.

A ways along, he discovered that the whole city was experience car problems. Namely, nothing was driving. At all. The roads were full of stalled automobiles. Some cars had men and women sitting on the hoods, fiddling with their black-screened cell phones. A few cursed vilely and a few more called out for assistance.

It was at this point that Johnny the Homicidal Maniac began to seriously worry. What could possibly stall all of these cars, turn off these cell phones and out the power of every house in the city? Was it something to do with that light?

Nothing else seemed likely.

The voices grew louder as he approached the town's center. Frightened citizens milled over the asphalt, talking nonsense to soothe themselves or clutching onto their date. Johnny wove between them, careful not to respond to their questions. Now was not the time to lose his cool, and his newfound self-control was dangerously thin stretched.

Turning the corner outside of a jewelry store, he slammed straight into a woman and fell back onto the concrete. Judging by the mirrored 'thump', she had fallen too.

"Watch it, buddy!" cried a voice that Johnny would know anywhere, "Does the fact that there's no power somehow give you the right to—"

She stopped. She looked him in the eye. Her pupils dilated.

"YOU!" she shrieked. "Johnny, you get the fuck away from me! I have enough to deal with here."

Johnny cringed. "I'm sorry Devi, I didn't mean—"

"The hell you didn't! _Where's my fucking pepper spray?_ You never do anything accidentally, I bet this whole power outage is your doing!"

"How would I do that?" He asked, bewildered.

"I don't know, I'm not a fucking mind reader. But I can tell you—"

CRASH.

The shattering of glass in the window behind Devi cut them both off. A young man crawled out, lugging a spilling sack behind him. Policemen who had been investigating down the street turned to the scene and called things like "stop!" and "Thief!".

The burglar took one look at them, glanced at Devi, and made a snap decision. He grabbed her by the arm and popped out a switchblade, threatening in a classic Hollywood-criminal style. Weapons drawn immediately, the two cops responded in a less than classic form.

"Drop her, you bastard. We don't have time for this shit!"

Not exactly chivalrous.

"You pussy-ass coppers don't have the balls!"

Not exactly an English major.

Johnny reached into his boot for his knife, stopping short with the realization that he'd never grabbed it off the kitchen counter, still planning to stay on his lawn as he had opened the door. For someone as thin as himself, that was practically a death sentence in a situation like this.

So loathe as he was, Johnny left it to the big cops with the little guns.

Those little guns aimed at the thief's head and moved their triggers. There was a tiny 'click' noise, and everything was still.

The policemen looked down at their pistols as if they had turned into glowing pink anacondas. They shot again. Nothing left the gun.

Devi groaned. "Just my fucking luck. Hey, ugly."

Surprisingly, the man actually looked down at her. "What?"

"Did you ever want children?" she asked conversationally, as if they were out on a date in the park.

"Um… Well, yes."

"Sorry about that, then." She grinned viciously and slammed her ankle up and back between the burglar's legs. He toppled sideways with his mouth in a painful 'O'.

Johnny didn't blink, but the cops flinched like rabbits to a gunshot. He really loved that girl.

"You," she pointed at the officers, "should get your guns checked. I don't know much about firearms, but that can't be normal."

The two looked at her reproachfully. "Miss," the first said, "these guns are fine. They've worked all day, and there's nothing wrong with the bullets, either."

"That is impossible," Devi said plainly, delivering a swift kick to the fallen criminal's head before he could recover from her first assault.

"You know what else is impossible?" the second cop responded, "All these cars stalling at the same time. And our walkie-talkies don't work neither."

Still sitting on the ground, Johnny offered, "A huge nuclear bomb might have done it. Electromagnetic pulse. I saw that on a cult commercial last week, they were offering free cookies with conversion."

"Shit, I hope that's not it." The first policeman sighed. "I'm going home to my wife and hoping that this whole thing blows over."

Devi shot the murderer a strange, suspicious look. The moonlight caught in her hair, shimmering almost white—so she _had_ changed it while he was away—and thoroughly distracting him. He vaguely hoped that she wasn't going to beat the shit out of him again.

_Well, that's love. Or so I've heard._

"I never liked guns." Johnny mused, words unbidden. Just once, he'd like to know what he was saying before he said it. "They're the culmination of human cruelty. Imagine how much better off the world would be if all of the guns stopped working tonight."

Devi's eyes narrowed and she let out a harsh bark of laughter. "I hope to hell not. If the guns don't work, then it's just one less protection between me and that asshole on the ground." She gave him a second kick to prove her point. "You, of course, don't have to worry about that, you psycho. Speaking of which: Whatever happened to that 'I give you my nothing' bullshit?"

"Devi," he frowned, "I didn't come here for you. Not that I wouldn't have, if you needed me or something, but I didn't know you were here. I'm just trying to figure out what happened, and maybe rob a seed shop while I'm at it."

"…. A seed shop?" the woman looked at him incredulously. "The power's out for who knows _how_ long, and you want to steal baby plants?"

The maniac stood, hands in pockets, staring ahead in split-second realization. "I know how long. I know how long the lights will be out for. And I'm going to be prepared."

"Oh really," she said, rolling her eyes. "How long is that?"

"For good, Devi. The lights are going out for good."

He knew it. With no idea how, and no logic to support it, he knew that the lights would not be coming back on. Not in his lifetime, anyway.

Devi regarded him with a mixture of anger, suspicion, and… fear. How would she deal with this? He hadn't considered that before. Was she prepared?

"Um…" he hoped she wouldn't kick him, "This city isn't going to get any safer. I have…" his thoughts flashed back to Reverend Meat, talking about basement bomb shelters, "…a veritable city in my basement. No idea why—although I'd really love to know. You could come with me. You'd be safe there."

"Safe?" his former girlfriend shrieked, "Excuse me for digging up the past, but the last time I was at your house, you tried to kill me! I'd rather take my chances with the city!"

The moon slid behind a dark cloud, throwing them both into shadow. Sighing, he got to his feet. He really wished she'd let that go already.

"I told you I was sorry about that. But the offer is always open, Devi. No matter what. You have my number. Oh, and by the way," Johnny shuffled past her, sighing, "the last time you called me, I died. Really died. Met the devil an' everything. Congratulations, you officially murdered me."

And then he walked away.

* * *

_Dear Die-ary,_

_I ran into Devi tonight. I'm a little worried about her safety. I think it's a good sign, though. That I'm worrying about other people. I would never try to kill her now. Nail Bunny wouldn't like that, and Nail Bunny always knew best. I wonder if he would have cared that I stole half of a greenery shop? What would a Boy Scout do? _

_…Hide in the woods for a few weeks until it all blows over. Maybe start a cult and gather Scouty followers._

_Not a bad idea, actually. Maybe this is all for the greater good. I wonder if my oven still works? Is cannibalism really dangerous? There's a good supply of meat in the basement… _

_I think I hear noises next door. I'm going to check on Squeegee._

_March 18, 1998_

* * *

"Squee?" called the murderer. "Squee, did the aliens come for you again?"

He pushed open the unlocked door and crept into the silent house. He could have used the tunnels, but then he was easy game for distractions of the violent sort. A few living humans did still populate the lower levels.

He slid up the stairs, whispering calls for his little neighbor and trying not to trip on anything. He heard a man—Squee's father most likely—in one of the rooms ahead, and jumped the last two stairs, aiming for that door.

Just a peek in showed him one of the strangest sights he'd ever laid eyes on. And he'd seen a few.

The room was lit by candles ringing the carpet, and the father stood dressed in a plaid skirt, woman's head scarf and a bag full of utensils on his back. Squee stood at the center, squeezing his teddy bear until the stuffing popped out of a stitch.

"So," the insane man started conversationally, walking into the room, "Are we having a party?"

The father jumped and brandished a dangerous looking spork. "Who are you?"

"I'm a friend of Squee's," Johnny answered, pointing at the little boy. "Why is he ductaped to the floor?"

"I'm sacrificing him to the pagan gods of my ancestors," the older man replied quite calmly. "Since the American way clearly isn't cutting it."

"…Isn't sacrificing your son more of a Judeo-Christian concept?" Johnny asked, tapping his cheek, "I mean, that's not exactly an Indian thing. You are Indian, aren't you?"

"Maybe. Don't care. This little ball of crazy's been screwing up my life since he was born. Now the whole fuckin' city loses power—it's gotta be his fault. If I get rid of him, it all goes back to normal."

Johnny looked at him quietly for a moment. "You, sir," he pulled something long out of his sleeve, "Are a zit on the ass of humanity."

And the long, sharp object sliced through the man's throat.

"Hey, Squee," the murderer called, taking a step over the twitching body, "I hope you don't mind that. He was trying to kill you, you know. Anyways, He was a terrible person. You shouldn't have to deal with that, even if he is your dad. Was."

The boy said nothing, eyes dangerously wide. The both looked down at the stuffed animal in Squee's hands.

"You," Johnny scowled, "have nothing to do with this, fuzzy bastard. If you weren't a friend of Squee's, I'd rip you into such little pieces they'd NEVER sew you back together. So, Squee, where's your mother?"

The kid made a small noise of fear. "You aren't going to kill her too are you?"

"Not unless you want me to!" the maniac grinned. "No, actually I was thinking you and her could come home with me. Things are a little crazy out there, and there's safety in numbers."

Squee looked down at the teddy bear. Johnny did too.

"Okay! Fine! I swear on what's left of my sanity that I won't hurt the kid." The madman kicked the corpse, "Have I ever really hurt him? No. C'mon, let's grab your mom and get back to my place."

"Mr. Neighbor-man?"

"Call me Nny."

"…Nny, my feet are taped to the floor."

"oh."

ToBeContinued


	3. For the Good of the Republic

_The Change_

_Summary_: the world is wicked, the world is cruel. No one knows this better than humanity's emotional sewer system, Johnny C. But floods are a thing of the past, and the world is spiraling out of control, and it seems like maybe, this time, the lights have gone out for good.

_Story:_a crossover of Johnny the Homicidal maniac, "Dies the Fire", Invader Zim, and misc. names and places. In which the old world ends, and a new world begins.  
_  
Leading characters_: Johnny C., Devi D, and Todd 'Squee' Castil.

_Warnings_: Murder, language, references to cannibalism, speculation on religion, and of course Johnny C. himself.

* * *

_...Into the valley of Fear, they rode..._

Devi looked down at the papers in her hand. Her sketches seemed so fragile and small, with their tiny pencil marks and fine details. The world was so heavy, she was afraid it would crush her and her drawings into little cubes of matter on the floor.

Last night, she'd gone out and found Tenna, who had a girl friend named Tess and a guy friend named Derek over. She'd explained what she had seen on the streets—omitting the parts involving Nny—and brought them back with her to the apartment, where things were safe if a bit cramped. Of course she hadn't wanted to bring the other two along, but she couldn't leave them out there in good conscience. The world outside was getting intense, what with the mass looting and the fire on Fourth Street. Although they'd calmed down with the sunrise. It was a good thing she'd made it back when she did; Tenna's place was in the dangerous side of town.

On the way back, they picked up one of Tess's coworkers from the bookstore where Devi used to work, and her little girl. She'd bought some fruit and various foods—coffee, sugar, salt—from the only open grocery store, telling herself all the while that Johnny had nothing to do with her actions. Johnny had nothing to do with her actions. It was just that with the looting and all, it might not be safe to come shopping again for a while.

So they'd been hiding in her three room apartment for the last eight hours. Her little refrigerated food was running low already (a good thing, since any longer and it would spoil for sure), and with every passing moment, she found herself thinking more and more that _maybe _Nny might have been right. Or was that was just the paranoia talking?

"Hey, Tenna!" she called into the kitchen.

Tenna's head popped out of the doorway, grinning. "What is it, Dev?"

"I think we need to have a meeting or something. Would you bring the others in here so we can talk?"

"'Kay."

Five minutes later, the six of them were gathered in her living room, spread out over the couch and chair and various beanbags. It was a bit crowded for a small room, but with Devi sitting on the coffee table, they managed.

"Okay," The blue-haired woman began, "this is a plan of action meeting. Basically, I want to know what you guys think is going on, and what to do about it. We're going in a circle."

She pointed a no-questions finger at Tenna. "What do you think, my ludicrous friend?"

"Oh, it's the end of the world as we know it…" the dark woman sang happily, "And I feel fine!"

"…Right. Gwen?"

"I think this will go back to normal pretty soon," she sighed, running a manicured hand through her spiky hair. "The government always clears these things up eventually."

"I don't think so," Tess cut in, a little nervously. "Something that turns off all the cars and the power and the phones? How does the government fix that?"

"They've got a finger in everything," the punk woman responded darkly, "if any good ever came of that, it's that they'll be able to fix things around here."

"Who says it's just here?" Tess demanded, folding her glasses over and over again.

"Alright, girls, hold up." Devi held up a hand. "Tess, what do you think is going on?"

"I think that this is the apocalypse. I've watched too many zombie movies not to recognize the signs, and I vote that we prepare. Zombies may be impossible, but there's no way things are going back to normal. Our only chance is that our city was the only one affected. And what are the chances of that?"

"Not very good," Devi agreed. "So Derek, what do you think?"

Derek looked at her carefully. He asked, "Does it really matter?"

"Well, yes. You're included here too."

Derek nodded. "It's The God and The Goddess. We screwed up so badly this time, they had to send us back to square one. I would say that yes, this is indeed the apocalypse."

"What about me?" the little girl piped up from the corner. "It's my turn!"

"Okay hon," Devi sighed. She wasn't a kid-person, but this one was kind of cute. "What do you think?"

"ALIENS!" she screeched with a wild grin. "They shot the power factories with some kinda space-ray! We're all DOOMED!"

Gwen rolled her eyes. "_Tyler_. I'm sorry. Her after-school program just got some new counselors a few weeks ago, and she's been a little off ever since."

"Hey," Devi shrugged, "Who knows? Maybe she's right. That guess is as good as any other. _I_ sure as hell don't know."

The room was silent for a long moment. Tyler shifted her beanbag and Tess popped her glasses back out, simply to do something with her hands. Finally, Derek turned to look at Devi.

"So, oh Fearless Leader," he said, grim humor a weight off the room, "Mistress of all things Paint-Related, what do we do now?"

The whole room looked at her expectantly, their futures suddenly dropped onto her unsuspecting shoulders. And, the greatest irony of the situation: she had no way of knowing exactly how important this moment would be. Looking back, she'd remember a sense of heaviness in the air around her- but at that moment, she chalked it up to a jam-packed apartment.

"The majority seems to think that things won't be going back to normal, at least not for a while," Devi pointed out, standing slowly, "In light of that, I say we go out and scavenge whatever we'll need for the next couple weeks, scope out the situation on the streets."

"But Dev, Squeeki is opposed to theft!" Tenna cried, holding out a skeleton squeaky-toy.

The blue-haired woman frowned, feeling suddenly very tired (and wasn't that thing named Spooky?). "Look, _Squeeki _is gonna have to deal with it. Desperate times call for desperate measures. We'll take some people with us, for safety in numbers and all that. A lot of people are probably going to die—when their medicine runs out, when they get robbed and there's no policemen to rush in… and I know a lot of people who won't be getting their chemotherapy tomorrow. It'll get bad."

Movies had shown her exactly how bad things could get when the law went away. She'd been an anarchist once, breifly, but that had ended the day she saw videos of a certain country in South America… or was it Africa? Either way, it had knocked her down a peg.

People go crazy when they think no one can stop them.

"It's a good plan," admitted Gwen, tapping the table with her long neon-green nails, "but there's a big flaw. This apartment can barely hold the six of us alone—how are we going to fit all the other people and supplies we'll pick up? And we need more than just this bathroom… preferably one that runs without electricity."

Everyone grimaced.

Their de facto leader began to pace, holding up a 'shush' finger every time someone tried to speak. The conflict in her head was barely contained, and any outside stimulus might result in total meltdown.

**_You could come with me. You'd be safe there._**

She was terrified of Johnny. There was a perpetual current of anger for him running under her thoughts, like boiling magma under cold obsidian fields. The idea of going on hands and knees, begging him for sanctuary, made her taste blood. The idea of living for who-knows-how-long in the same house with the psychopath she might have loved was like choking on broken glass.

But what other options were there? What about these people? They were counting on her, for some reason, and even though she hardly knew them, she'd hate to see decent people die. These guys were depending on her and she had a way to keep them safe, at least for a little while. How could she ignore that?

_**The offer's always open**_

On the one hand, he had tried to kill her before. On the other hand, she was tired of running away from this problem, away from her own thoughts. Obviously, she could handle him if something snapped again... He probably hadn't been counting on a dozen people showing up on his doorstep, though…

_Actually_, she snorted, _I'd love to see his face. I bet he was hoping to get cozy with me as the apocalypse raged outside his door_.

A small part of her insisted that Johnny—psychopath or not—would never do that to her. It just wasn't like him. Of course, the other parts of her promptly told that section to shut the fuck up. No sympathy for the enemy. Trusting a snake gets you bitten.

"All right, ladies and gentleman," she finally announced. "I know somewhere that we'll be safer… it's not perfect, of course, but it'll do for now."

"Where?" asked Tess, which was odd because Devi sort of knew her and she had never spoken up like that before. Then again, it had been a while. Maybe she remembered it wrong.

"Oh, guys… Do you remember that guy I dated last year? …"

* * *

"Mr. Nei—Nny, can we take my mommy's pills? She won't be any problem, I promise. She just doesn't like to be away from them for too long. She starts crying."

Squee peered into the bathroom, considering all the different sorts of medication in the cabinet. He didn't know what they did, for the most part, but maybe they'd be useful. He'd grab them all just in case. Come to think of it, he really should have read the lables before.

"Sure," Johnny answered, dropping the unconscious woman onto the floor. He was actually pretty impressed with the amount of human contact he could withstand these days. Provided, she was unconscious, so it was really more like a cadaver.

"Actually," he added, "you better grab whatever you can. Food, toys, whatever. It's a little crazy out there, and I'm not sure how far we'll be able to go from my house."

"I have a wagon…" the little boy offered hesitantly.

"A little red wagon!" Johnny whirled, "Oh my god, you _must_ bring it!"

Poor Todd just looked at him. He wasn't sure if it was scarier when his neighbor was happy or when he was mad. "...Okay."

So they ran through the dark house with various candles, grabbing anything of interest—paper, scetchbooks, food, clothing of every sort—and loading it on the wagon. Five minutes of rooting through the garage turned up a mesh-sided yellow cart/wagon, which was used to store just about everything else of value in the house.

On top of the myriad they dropped Squee's mom, still snoring, and headed out the door, into the early-morning sun.

Into a new world.

ToBeContinued


	4. Exodus

_The Change_

_Summary_: the world is wicked, the world is cruel. No one knows this better than humanity's emotional sewer system, Johnny C. But floods are a thing of the past, and the world is spiraling out of control, and it seems like maybe, this time, the lights have gone out for good.

_Story:_a crossover of Johnny the Homicidal maniac, "Dies the Fire", Invader Zim, and misc. names and places. In which the old world ends, and a new world begins.  
_  
Leading characters_: Johnny C., Devi D, and Todd 'Squee' Castil.

_Warnings_: Murder, language, references to cannibalism, speculation on religion, and of course Johnny C. himself.

* * *

_-With the sunset spread like wings,_

_And the sun all red and dripping blood,_

_The party's footfall rings..._

"Tenna, Derek, grab those grocery carts!"

The two fugitives jumped to attention, snapping up the abandoned 'hobo-mobiles', as Tenna had put it.

Although it was early noon, the streets were not entirely empty. Devi scowled dangerously at a pedestrian, shouldering her bags.

Over the last day, they'd been by everyone but Tenna's house to pick up their stuff. And other people's stuff. The Home-Depot surely wouldn't miss a couple wagons, and it was doubtful that the Wal-Mart would need those shopping carts. The same way that the hunting store wouldn't miss those Swiss-army knives or those arrows.

Granted, she wasn't sure why she needed arrows—or the bow that went with them—but she was in Prophet mode by that point, and running seventy percent by instinct. Guns don't work, bows do… well, and you do the math.

She just needed someone who could use them.

She needed more food, too. They had picked up Gwen's brother and his neighbor during her leg of the trip, and Devi was running the numbers. There was no way she could feed these people for over a week, even with the cans they had liberated from the supermarket.

"My... A girl from my coven lives just around the road," Derek called over the rattling cart wheels, "Could we stop and get her?"

Speaking of mouths to feed…it was occuring to Devi more and more that she could only really afford to take in people with skills they could use… a part time hunter, or a bow maker, or a survivalist with stocks of food. Or somebody who knew what the hell to do in the face of a potential apocalypse, because she was barely winging it at this stage.

"Can she do anything useful?" the leader finally asked. "It's just that we just can't afford to take care of dead weight at this point."

The man rolled his grocery cart up beside her, falling into step. "Pam was a naturalist before... things changed, yesterday. Wiccan-tree-hugger syndrome, as I like to call it. If we have to hide in the woods, she'll be helpful."

Devi made another quick decision. "Alright," she said, "we'll get your friend. You run ahead and let her know we're coming, and I'll take your hobo-mobile."

Shit. Did she actually say that?

"M'kay." Derek winked. Ugh. So she _did_ say that…

But the Wiccan was ignorant of her chagrin, and bounced off to collect his friend.

Double shit. Now she was stuck with two religious nuts for the remainder of this goddamned apocalypse. But, if there was a consolation, Wiccans were generally more agreeable than, say, Christians, in her experience. Less evangelical, at least.

_As long as nobody starts preaching, I think we'll get along._

A loud call from across the street caught her attention, dragging her out of her thoughts.

"Hey lady!" the stranger said, dragging his companion by the arm, "My friend here needs help—do you have any bandages?"

Devi looked them over. The speaker was an older teen, black-haired, well-built. The unconscious one was probably about the same age, thinner, with brown hair and a torn green jacket. Blood leaked from his side.

"Holy shit," Devi yelped, eyes wide. "What happened to him?"

"He has something of a hero-complex," the darker explained, watching as she pulled out some towels, "Thinks he can stop every looter in the city. This time, I'm pretty sure he met his match."

As she wrapped the towels around his torn side, Devi sighed loudly. Fuck. Well, the universe probably knew what it was doing.

"Your buddy's not going anywhere like this. The two of you had better come with us."

* * *

_Dear Die-ary, _

_I picked up Squee and his mom yesterday. And her pills. And some food. The TV doesn't work anymore, but the bathrooms do, somehow (gravity pump?) and Squee is fun to have around. We've been talking a lot._

_I feel very lucid. I've even been across the street to raid the neighbor's kitchen without and major shit. It's almost as if the modern world was a drug that was fucking me up too badly to stand, and now that I'm off of it…_

_Reverend Meat hasn't talked since the lights went out._

_I think I'm getting better._

_March 19, 1998

* * *

_

Johnny waltzed up the basement steps and into the living room, carrying a bag of coins and keys.

"Hey Squee!" He shouted, looking for his tiny roommate, "I just killed most of the people left in my basement! What should I do with the bodies?"

He liked asking Todd that kind of question.

"_Squeee…"_ the boy whimpered. Terrible, terrible images flooded into his head.

"I mean," the maniac continued, "I usually just shove them into an unoccupied room or bury them under the front lawn, but I have company now, so…"

Squee gulped and tried to think rationally, because that tended to calm him down. "…Y-you should p-probably bury them. We may n-need to plant things, and it'll help them grow better."

"Good plan! I might need you to help me dig, though. I'm pretty skinny, as you might have noticed."

Todd looked at the madman as if he were an alien from planet Xenu. You could almost hear the mental cords snapping.

"Just as long," he answered faintly, "as I don't have to touch them." And he wandered off in a daze.

'Huh' Johnny mentally shrugged.

While he was down there killing people, he'd taken the liberty of chopping up the healthiest looking bodies he could find, supposing that in a pinch, he could eat them. Although he really hoped it wouldn't come to that.

It was strange, though, that as soon as he starting gutting, he knew exactly what to do to, and exactly where everything was. Had he been an anatomy major in college? A professional sportsman?

Things were getting more uncanny every minute.

As he was building a fire in the sink—he'd found that it was safer that the carpet—Squee wandered in behind him.

"Nny," he frowned, "what are you doing?"

"I'm building a fire so I can smoke human meat for us to eat someday."

The look on Squee's face shifted into an I'm-not-surprised-but-I-really-should-be expression. "Nny, do you think this is the apocalypse?"

The murderer turned to him, surprised. "I didn't think about that! What do you know about the apocalypse?"

Another change of expressions, this time to the look that comes with bad memories. "Only what Pepito's told me. That usually involved fire and tattoos 'n stuff. But he said it was the end of the world, and, well…" He gestured out the now un-boarded window, "this looks like the end of the world to me."

Johnny sat down on the tile, gesturing for Squee to join him.

"Maybe it _is_ he end of the world," he mused thoughtfully, "Or maybe it's the beginning of a new world. Maybe this is our Flood story; maybe we're finally going to turn the human race in a decent direction! You and me, Squeegee. We're going to make a whole new fucking world. All we have to do is make it through the night, then we'll be in a new day."

"I don't think we'll make it," the younger said sadly, "bad things always happen to me. I'm like a trauma buffet—Shmee told me so."

Johnny frowned. Poor kid, one of the last true humans on earth, and so unlucky… "Well," he said, "if this is the end of the old world, this is the end of old Todd too."

"…So I won't be like a badly drawn cartoon full of misfortune and hilariously sick woe anymore?"

"Nope! No one's drawing us a crappy future now. You and me, we can be anybody we want. We're free."

Johnny found himself thinking of all the months he had spent on the road, trying to suppress his own emotions, only to realize that he _was_ his emotion, and come back home at a loss. Inadvertently, he'd found his freedom here at home, emotion and all.

_Ironic_.

So he could be anyone he wanted now. He could be…

"Hey, Squeegi."

The little kid looked up at him, chewing a lip. "Yeah?"

"I just realized, I don't have a last name. All my pictures have 'Johnny C.' written on them, but no real last name. We live together, now. It's almost like we're family, right?"

"…Right..."

"Well… do you mind if I steal your last name? What is your last name?"

Squee rubbed at a spot on the tile. "It's Casil. And… well, okay. But you have to be good if you're gonna be in my family. You can't try to kill me like Daddy did."

"Okay!" the older man agreed, jumping to his feet. "This is gonna be great!"

ToBeContinued


	5. Reunion

_The Change_

_Summary_: the world is wicked, the world is cruel. No one knows this better than humanity's emotional sewer system, Johnny C. But floods are a thing of the past, and the world is spiraling out of control, and it seems like maybe, this time, the lights have gone out for good.

_Story:_a crossover of Johnny the Homicidal maniac, "Dies the Fire", Invader Zim, and misc. names and places. In which the old world ends, and a new world begins.  
_  
Leading characters_: Johnny C., Devi D, Todd 'Squee' Castil, and the Zim and Dib duo.

_Warnings_: Murder, language, references to cannibalism, speculation on religion, and of course Johnny C. himself.

* * *

_...Too and fro, from peak to fall,_

_Like the death toll of a God-_

Devi stood with her back to the house, eyeing the train behind her. Eleven people now, eleven people each with their worldly possessions loaded up in a grocery cart behind them.

And somehow, she was responsible for keeping them safe.

They also had three ponies, which she still couldn't quite understand. She turned away for two minutes and somehow they'd acquired the quadrupeds without her noticing. Tenna had attached one to her shopping cart with a scarf, one was grazing off road, and Tyler was riding one bareback. Wait. There was a fourth one now. _Where were they coming from_?

"Tess," she groaned, rubbing her temples. "Where did these horses come from?"

The woman in glasses shrugged sheepishly. "Kevin grabbed them for us. I think he nabbed them from a petting-zoo when we went by South Street."

God almighty. This was definately more like stealing and less like surviving, but she couldn't take them back now—the city was too dangerous, and her treacherous brain was already spinning out ideas for how to use them best.

"Whatever," she sighed, not wanting to deal with this anymore. There was a bigger fish to fry.

For indeed, she stood on the front lawn of Johnny the Homicidal maniac, Johnny the Perfect-man-turned-murderer, Johnny-Who-Had-a-City-In-His-Basement, Johnny-the-love-sick-Psychopath.

And she was about to beg him for help.

In a way, she hoped that he'd take one look at her group and slam the door shut. Then she'd have something new to be mad about—after a year, the anger from their catastrophic date was a little worn at the creases—and she could say, "Oh well, I tried."

But in reality, this might be her friends' only chance. They'd been attacked twice on the way there, and four times total. Even when they camped in a park last night, things had turned nasty. The citizens were catching on faster and faster, leaving little time for developing a new plan.

The first time had been on her initial trip to Derek's apartment, and that had been a mostly harmless loser out of his mind from lack of drugs. She'd dealt with him by herself, all the while thanking her dojo master for all the training.

The other three times had been after they picked up Kevin and his injured friend—which was lucky, since those times it had been three people, then four, then a half-dozen attacking. And as it turned out, the only people on her side who could fight worth shit were Kevin, Ben, Gwen and herself. And Ben was out of the first two from his injuries.

They'd been forced to cover their grocery carts with their clothes—less valuable than food. By the third day, people were getting twitchy on the subject of food or water, and 'normal' people were starting to understand that the lights weren't coming back on. Some of them left. She'd seen a group of people on bicycle heading out of town that very day. She made a mental note to get a hold of some good bikes.

So, in light of the impending chaos, it was time to do or be dead, in a manner of speaking.

Devi made a 'quiet' gesture, and walked up the sidewalk, ascended the steps. This was her last chance. She hadn't told her people exactly what Johnny C. had done—only that the two of them didn't get along well, and that he was unstable. Suppose she told them the rest of the story, and let them decide for themselves?

No. It had to be done. For the good of the republic, so the saying goes.

Out went her hand. She knocked. It was dead silent.

"Who is it?" asked an irritated voice as the door creaked open. "It's the end of the world, don't you have somewhere better to— "

He stopped. Johnny, in the doorway, gaped at his ex-girlfriend.

"Hello, Nny." She felt that her attempted smile came out suspiciously like a grimace. "I came here to take you up on your offer."

The newly christened Johnny Casil was speechless. Yes, he'd offered to give Devi a place to stay, but he hadn't thought she'd actually take him up on it. She _hated_ him.

"Devi… who are all these people with you?"

"These," she answered, managing asomething bordering a real smile this time, "are my flock, and I am their Shepard. Actually, they're just a bunch of friends who would probably be screwed on their own."

"…I'm sorry, I don't get it."

Devi sighed heavily. "I need you to give them asylum. You said that your basement is huge. I need you to let us—all of us—stay there until things cool down. If I could think of a way to get out of town without getting killed, believe me, I would, but I can't."

In the back of his mind, Johnny noticed that she looked beautiful right then, frazzled and stressed as she was. Responsibility looked good on her. But something told him that he ought to keep that to himself.

"Okay," he said, slowly, "but the basement isn't quite fit for living at this point. You can store all the stuff in my garage."

And then he slammed the door.

Safely inside his house, Johnny wondered what the hell he was thinking. He couldn't live in the same house as nine people, two children and three ponies! Squee was okay, he was a good kid, but all these people he'd never met? It set his teeth on edge and his fingers scrabbling for a knife.

But Devi…

He owed Devi. He cared a lot about Devi. He'd do anything for her. He would do whatever she needed him to, any time and any place. Even if it meant hiding an army in his basement. If worst came to worst, he supposed he could live in Squee's house for a while. This wouldn't be forever…

"Hey, Squeegee!" he yelled, his back to the door, "we're having company over!"

The kid popped his head over the top of the couch. "Who?"

"A lady named Devi and about a hundred of her closest friends."

"Why?"

"Oh, you know. I think somebody tried to sell them a mongoose. I'm really not clear on the specifics."

"Are you going to kill them?"

"I don't plan on it. But then, being what I am, I can't make any promises."

"Nny?"

"Yes, Squee?"

"Please don't feed them the dead people from the basement."

* * *

_Dear Die-ary,_

_Today some friends came over. It's funny how I used to say that when I brought home victims. Now I really mean it. Sort of. After all, Devi was with them. I guess they'll be staying here for a while, clogging up my personal space with their petty problems, shattering my eardrums with their endless bickering._

_But I won't kill them. I'm stronger now. I can decide for myself who I want to kill, and I can stick with it. These people will live, because Devi wants them to. _

_I'll do anything to make things up to her._

_March 20, 1998_

* * *

To keep herself from descending into an angry cesspool of useless rage, Devi slid into her Prophet mode. She spent the next hour and a half directing her group here and there, peeling away the thin metal of the garage, and making sure everyone got their stuff inside safely.

She spent a lot of that last exercise trying not to look at Johnny's car. The beat-up old machine seemed to have her most painful memories painted into it. She consoled herself with the fact that, even if she was facing who-knows-how-long surrounded by memories of what was quite possible the worst date in human history, at least she didn't have to take her mother with her.

She'd rather die.

Tenna dragged her ponies around back, searching for better grass. The California stuff was hardy but short, and just growing back at this time of year.

"Devi…" Tenna called, sounding uneasy. "You better come see this."

Curious as to what could sober her spastic friend, Devi slipped away from the loading crew and followed Tenna behind the house.

The ground had hardly a foot of grass in tact, and dirt was scattered here and there in black mounds. There was a row of trees in cracked pots obscuring the back door, and suspicious garbage bags piled in one corner. Okay, to be fair, it could have just been garbage; however, her first conclusion was less than charitable.

"He's either been planting or burying," Devi hypothesized, "But I couldn't tell you which one it was. Or what."

"Well," the black woman said at last, forcing a cheery tone, "I don't care what he does as long as he's got some kind of bathroom!"

Oh. That reminded Devi, she needed to check on their water supplies. When she'd implemented a water-rationing plan that first day the whole party had grumbled, but it was shaping up to be her smartest decision yet.

The blue-haired woman swung back around the side of the house, calling out for Tess to give her a hand. The once-meek wannabe had risen to the occasion rapidly since things changed, and might make a good second in command if she kept it up. If only the girl's infamous former-friends could see her now.

"We've still got three gallon-jugs," she called back, peeking out from the garage. "But we should send some people out on a retrieval just in case."

"Why?" Devi asked, making her way over past piles of belongings and detritus. Sometimes it was hard to tell one from the other.

"Call me crazy, but I have this feeling that things are about to get really bad. Really bad. Like, explosively awful for everybody involved. I'm even willing to stay in this Hellhole if it'll keep me safe. So yeah, we need more water."

Devi fought back a grin. The house was not exactly trust inspiring, even if you had no history with it.

"Okay," she replied, waving over Derek and Ben, "I'll send a couple people back to that Wal-Mart we passed. Orders are," she turned to the boys, "Scavenge anything that looks remotely useful. Take the shopping carts. Don't take any unnecessary risks—you notice I'm not sending Kevin? That's because you can't afford to pick any fights."

The two grinned. Even after only three days, Kevin had acquired a reputation as a tough talker with an itchy trigger finger—figuratively speaking. Literal trigger fingers were looking to be a thing of the past.

The boys made a big deal of sneaking off quietly, pointing at Kevin's back and winking excessively. Their leader didn't know whether to laugh or beat her head against a wall.

How did she end up running this operation?

* * *

Johnny paced nervously in front of the door. Devi had called him to a three-man meeting out back, and he wasn't sure what to do. It was probably just to decide how they would split up their living space down stairs, but what if it was so she could yell at him again?

His knife hand itched.

And what were they going to do about the waste? There was no way he was going to have shit and other vile excrements clogging up his lower floors, not even for Devi. A madman had to draw the line somewhere.

His hand pried open the front door and he stepped into the night.

It wasn't particularly chilly outside, but someone had built a small fire anyways, probably for light. Johnny slunk along the walls, keeping well away from the exposing luminance. Somehow, he didn't want them to see who their host was just yet.

Behind the house, Devi sat in her lawn chair flanked in a semicircle by two other women. An empty chair awaited him across from Devi.

She tensed when he took his seat, into the same posture that his milder victims took when he walked into their cell.

The comparison unsettled him.

"So…" the murderer started, uncomfortable in the silence.

"Johnny." Devi pointed to him and then two the girl on her right. "This is Pam. She's a naturalist. Foraging and wildlife survival is her specialty. This is Tess. She's my second in command for the time being."

Johnny squinted at the second woman. Her stylish glasses and flat body struck something in him. He recognized her, but from where?

"Do… I know you?"

Tess snorted. "That's all I get? 'Do I know you?'. I have to say, I'm a little insulted."

Think, think think… glasses, blind, flies, boyfriends... _Oh_.

"You!" he exclaimed, "You were the one with the boyfriend! I forgot because it was so close to… You made it out?"

"Yes, Johnny," she sighed. "I made it out. And I guess I should thank you for getting rid of Dillon, except that you also tried to kill _me_…"

"Oh, I wouldn't have killed you. Probably."

Devi, who had been following the interaction with growing confusion, held up a hand at that point.

"You two _know_ each other?"

"Yes."

"In a manner of speaking."

The blue-haired woman groaned. "This makes things very complicated. _How_ do you know each other?"

"Hum..." Tess snapped her fingers. "You know how I dated this guy in a band? Dillion? Well, I got caught in the middle when Johnny and him had a bit of a misunderstanding."

"Killed him." Johnny added simply. "He was an ass and a half."

Was it the dim lighting, or did Devi look… relieved?

"Okay. What I really need to know is if that's going to hinder us somehow."

The former captor stared at his former captive. She stared back.

"No." they answered together.

* * *

Devi wished she understood half of what just happened. Or why she was surprised that Johnny attempted to murdered people beside herself.

She felt… a little lost, and—oh this was weird—like she'd lost something.

"Then we need to settle some business," she continued, longing for some papers to shuffle so that she could do something with her hands. "Johnny, how much of your basement is fit for habitation?"

The murderer frowned, staring into space. "Maybe… 8000 square feet. I'm not sure. There's a lot of levels, and some rooms that even I've never been in."

Wow. That was, what? Four houses worth? Nine adults in her party, plus Johnny, that was ten people, Ben and Kevin were an easy pair, Derek and Gwen would be simple, or maybe Derek and Pam if Tenna's renoun compatablility skills weren't on the fritz…

"Would there be an easy way to subdivide it?" she asked.

"By floors, I guess. There are three floors that're almost totally safe, and half of a lower floor. With enough time, you could clear out the other half."

"Good enough." The leader turned to her right. "Obviously, we can't keep any plants down there, and I don't want to live underground twenty-four seven. What's your advice?"

Pam clicked her tongue and scratched at the pentagram tattooed on her cheek. "The obvious preface is, will we be staying down there indefinitely? Different actions will be taken depending."

Forcing herself to ignore the tongue-click, Devi answered, "Indefinitely. I'd love to say we'll be out in a month, but I've been thinking hard today, and I have no idea how long this situation will last, no idea where else we could go."

Oh god. Eternity in this house. Underground. The thought was like a slap in the face.

"In that case, we should try an Andalite set-up. I saw it in a sci-fi book. We set up family quarters for sleeping and bad weather downstairs, and we spend most other time above ground. I mean, as Americans, we're used to spending most of our time inside a house, but why does it have to be that way?"

Wait, a sci-fi book? The future of their group was resting in the hands of a science fiction nerd?

"It sounds workable," Tess offered, "And we could turn some of the near-by houses into living room type things, you know, for when it gets hot but you don't want to go back underground."

"Right!" Pam smiled, dimples distorting her tattoo. "Farming—we'll need to do that—can go in the yards around the neighborhood. There's something of a forest behind the houses across the street, and we could carve out a spot for any livestock Kevin finds us."

"Calm down," Devi broke in, "You're moving too fast. First of all, do we even know how any houses in the neighborhood are inhabited right now?"

Blank stares.

"Alright. Before we go any further, lets find out about that. Now as for sleeping arrangements," she looked at Johnny again, who avoided her eye, "I suppose you'll want the ground level for yourself?"

"Well," he pointed out, "It _is _my house."

"No kidding. So here's my proposal: we split our crew into three groups. The bottom half level can store our basic supplies, in case of raids. Gwen and Tyler can take the first level with Derek. Second level goes to Tenna, Tess and Pam. Third level to Kevin, and Ben. I'll stay on the bottom with the supplies."

Johnny looked like he was biting his tongue. Christ, now she was going to have to make nice with the psycho.

"No one is going to pry through your stuff, Johnny."

"That's not it," he protested. "It's just that… You shouldn't have to sleep with the curtains and the tableware. You could stay on level with me and Squee and Squee's mother. There's room."

Spend the night ten feet away from the man who tried to stab her to death? Spend the night ten feet away from the man who'd nearly killed and possibly kidnapped her second in command? Spend the night ten feet away from her _ex?_

No chance in Hell.

"No," she insisted, "I'll do fine on the bottom level. If we absorb any more people, we can room them with Ben and Kevin, or Tenna if needed. I think that covers housing."

The waning moon caught Johnny's face as he shifted forward in his seat; deja vu slammed into her full force, dragging her back to that night they'd stepped out under the stars. The panes of his face were the same, the moonlight draped across the bridge of his nose, it was all the same, just like she remembered...

"You'll need to defend yourselves," he noted- far away, it seemed. "Are you armed?"

Devi would have replied, but she couldn't move from that night on the cliff—it played on like an old film, projecting across the back of her eyes, and she couldn't stop herself from asking if he'd like to go back to his place. _His_ place. His _place._

"Minimally," Tess replied instead, a dull buzz of reality, "A couple bows and a sling of arrows, a couple knives, slingshots. From a hunting store."

She got in the car with him, like an idiot. What did she really know about him at that point? He'd told that he was screwed up, he'd _told _her that, and she figured it was alright because she was kind of screwed up too. He could have been a thousand things, and she'd just blindly hopped into the passenger's seat- but God, she'd been so _sure_...

"Can you use them?"

The radio had played stupid pop songs, and they'd joked about those for a while before settling on a classical station... she remembered thinking 'This is the one,' and she hadn't been thinking about the station. They pulled up in front of his house, and he got out, and he opened the door for him, and she thought that from anyone else it might have seemed chauvinistic, but from him it was just sweet...

"No. No one can. Not well, at any rate."

Devi ripped out of her memories, shaken. The real world swam back into focus, tearing her hand from his like she hadn't been smart enough to do for herself, back when it might have mattered. Reality. Breathe. She was needed _here_.

"I can use the knives," she managed, glaring up at the stars. Stupid, stupid, beautiful stars.

No one noticed her departure, or return.

"Aside from that," Johnny said, in a low voice, "You can't defend yourselves against any large assault. A dozen people, and you'll be wiped out. Your whole group needs to learn how to fight, and fast."

Good point. Think about the future, not the past. Fighting, learning how to fight...

"Well who's going to teach us?"

Johnny looked hard at her, as if his gaze was going to crack her open and pour out truths she didn't even know she knew. Maybe he understood more than she gave him credit for.

"I guess I am."

TBC


	6. Death Can be Your Right Hand Man

_The Change_

_Summary_: the world is wicked, the world is cruel. No one knows this better than humanity's emotional sewer system, Johnny C. But floods are a thing of the past, and the world is spiraling out of control, and it seems like maybe, this time, the lights have gone out for good.

_Story:_a crossover of Johnny the Homicidal maniac, "Dies the Fire", Invader Zim, and misc. names and places. In which the old world ends, and a new world begins.  
_  
Leading characters_: Johnny C., Devi D, Todd 'Squee' Castil, and the Zim and Dib duo.

_Warnings_: Murder, language, references to cannibalism, speculation on religion, and of course Johnny C. himself.

* * *

_...For the riders were fearless, mounts unmatched,_

_And their hooves with light were shod._

_Dear Die-ary,_

_I seem to have volunteered myself for troop training duties. Why? I'm not entirely sure. I got a sense from the group she brought along, a sense of humanity. Maybe it's just because I'm free now, or maybe Devi has good taste in people. Whatever it is, I've volunteered to get right into the shit-pond of it._

_Maybe I just wanted to impress Devi._

_In the long run, it's going to serve me well. They live in my house—or they will, once we move the stuff in. They'd better pull their weight._

_March 22, 1998_

_-Z?-  
_

Devi crashed into her seat out back, tired to the bone. Barely six o' clock and she was as worn out as she was hungry from a day of manual labor. And tomorrow: figuring out how to wash clothes without a washing machine.

The whole party ate at a set of mismatched tables, taken from deserted houses along the neighborhood street. End to end, the three tables could sit twelve people, although there were only ten actual chairs. Johnny ate inside, Edward was chasing ponies, and the children made do with stools.

Devi's was the most comfortable, practically a throne compared to the squeaky rod-backed variety, with a cushion on the seat and armrests as well. The group had insisted that she take it, no excuses, and planted it at the head of the tables, medieval style.

She felt vaguely ridiculous.

Speaking of which, on her chipped plate lay the fruits of their scavenging: three pretzel rods, half a bright red apple, and a lump of cheese. It was definitely not a proper meal, but if they were going to keep twelve plus people alive till some kind of harvest, it was all they could afford. Maybe more than they could afford.

"Alright guys," she started, knocking her fork against the wooden table, "We've got to discuss some things, before we go any farther."

The crew looked up at her, eyes wide. In that instant, she felt the enormity of her task hanging off her neck like a backpack full of led. Bloody hell.

"First off, we've got to formalize this whole… whateveritis. We're not going to last long without some kind of system, some kind of government. I don't care if it's a tribal counsel or a Caliphate—we just need a direction that everyone agrees on. Ideas?"

The woman that Johnny had taken in… that Squee kid's mom… pulled up from her plate, eyes glazed. "Who… who says it's going to last long enough for a government?"

"Who says we won't?" their leading lady retorted. She had found that she had little patience for the drugged up woman. "Let's assume the worst for now. I'll buy you a lifetime supply of Prozac if it turns out I'm wrong."

Very little patience.

Kevin and Ben looked around awkwardly. If she had to guess, she'd say that as the newest members of the group, they probably felt like they had little room to talk.

"I… think that we should agree on no theocracies," offered Gwen. "It's a recipe for disaster."

Devi nodded. "I'll second that motion. I don't want any crusades on my hands, down the line."

"Maybe we should have some sort of democracy," proposed Tess, munching a stick of pretzel. "We're small enough that we could have everyone give a direct say—none of that Electoral College bullshit."

"There's two problems with that," countered Derek, "One: we may very well get bigger. Two: can you imagine the hassle involved in getting a vote for every little thing?"

From the end of the table, Pam offered, "A republic, then? Something like a president, but simpler?"

Squee looked up from his plate. "If you elect a president in a setting like this, you'll be electing a king. It won't be like America at all, so you should give up on that and think of something else. And if you do elect a king, where will you draw the line? Who will you choose? Think about inheritance. Suppose that their child is a completely unfit ruler—what then?"

The whole table stared at Todd Castil.

"He has a point, you know," Devi pointed out, amused. "I think we may have to invent something new to suit our purposes."

She wondered what Johnny might have contributed, if he had taken dinner with the group. It was… not a shame, because that would imply that she wanted him to be here… but a loss for the group as a whole, to not have his say in the discussion.

"Then… we could have a neo-monarchy… dictatorship thing," Kevin finally joined in, "Like, elect a king, then have the group choose a new king after he's dead. Or we could apprentice someone to the king, so they'd learn how to rule."

"Not a bad idea, in theory," Pam grinned at him. "Dunno if it'd work, but it sounds good. We could apprentice two or three people, see how they fare under pressure, and then vote on our favorite."

"Or," Devi cut in, "Have the leader pick from the three. We could have a group veto just in case everyone hates the decision."

"I'm cool with it," Tess said, "anyone have an objection?"

A chorus of head shakes said no.

"In that case," The lady in glasses grinned sheepishly, "I vote for Devi."

The assembly erupted into "here here!"s and "I'm in!"s. Devi sputtered.

"Who says I want to lead you idiots anywhere?" she groused, taking a violent bite out of her half-apple.

"Oh c'mon," Tenna grinned, "You know you looooove us. Besides, it's not your decision!"

Devi muttered irritably. Secretly, though, it was flattering. She never minded playing a leader before, but she'd always assumed that it would be temporary. A cardboard stand-in until some charismatic man could take over.

The notion was actually pretty moving, to be chosen by popular demand. She only hoped, fervently hoped, that she would be strong enough to hold things together.

'God,' she prayed silently, looking around the table, 'I don't ask for much, but I could really use some strength right now.'

* * *

Johnny watched as the rag-tag collection of people lined up behind his house. The bodies were all buried by now, he'd even chopped them up to make things less conspicuous; it still made him a bit nervous that Devi might find out about them. He'd already decided that she never needed to know about all that. It was all in the past anyways.

In this new world it wasn't murder, it was homeland defense.

The lady in question stood in front of the group, appraising them as Johnny leaned casually against the house, obscured by its shadow. No sweat. He'd been teaching this kind of lesson for years now. It wouldn't be exactly the same, but close enough.

"Things have changed," she addressed them, military posture unflinching, "and now you have to change too. I don't know how hard we'll have to fight to protect ourselves, but I know that we _will_ need to. We've been attacked by basically harmless losers until now, but how long before they get smart and come after our supplies?"

The collection shifted uneasily. He'd been told that a couple of them were pacifists—wiccans too—and none of them had ever really used weapons before. Kevin apparently had some knife experience…

"I don't think any of you have properly met our… host. Johnny…" She paused, probably trying to remember his new name, "…Castil, owns this house. If it weren't for him, we'd be out in the streets or hiding in the forest. And he expects us to protect his home—our home."

Johnny pushed off the plaster and into the sun, hands behind his back. He slid up to the ragged line and glared at each of them. They flinched back from his gaze; he knew then that he had a more promising group than he'd hoped. The smart ones knew to be afraid.

Quick as lightening, he struck—reached out an arm and snatched a blond, tattooed woman from the line by the throat. Her doe eyes went wide.

"I could kill you right now. See how easily I caught you? Suppose I wanted you dead? You would be, twice over. It'd be so easy to snap your neck, or I could slice _here_ and let your heart do the work for me. Why?" He eyed the group. "Because you don't understand the power of Death—the power of life! The oh-so tenuous strands of gossamer web that thread you to this world. It makes you weak. It makes you _expendable_."

He tossed the woman back into line with unexpected strength.

"There are two ways to come to know death. You can kill, or you can be killed. Men fear death because it's alien, alien like the gas station attendant on a Tuesday! But when you come to know it, Death can be your right-hand man. You'll fear _nothing_ so much as you fear yourselves."

The killer paced the line, brushing his ragged bangs from his eyes. "To kill is to walk a fine line. Some people never can stay on the line. I never could, and I've had more practice than a private in Vietnam. I can't teach you how to fight the monster inside yourselves, but I _can_ teach you to fight the monster out _there_."

He gestured towards the city behind him.

"I won't tolerate any fucking up, and I won't tolerate you putting yourself before any of your comrades. That's what we are, fuck it all. We may be the last vestiges of sanity left in this rotting world. The termite ridden floorboards in the house of humanity finally dropped out, and we're on our own. So yeah, I can teach you to protect yourselves, how to fight a killing battle. But I can't teach you how to be a human being. And that's the only thing I require."

The blond woman rubbed at her neck, and he felt unexpectedly proud. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glance of Devi's expression. She looked… almost impressed.

"So we'll start with the sort of fighting that's simple enough for a brain-dead monkey to get. I have a case full of knives here, and you'll each need one." He pointed to a suitcase to his left.

A black woman raised her hand. What was this, middle school?

"What?"

"So… why isn't Devi training too?" she pointed to the shadows where Devi D. was observing from.

Johnny broke out in a laugh. "Devi knows fucking well how to defend herself. Trust me."

* * *

Devi leaned against the rusty old car in Johnny's garage, trying to overcome her deep dislike for the thing. It was better to think about food supplies or blanket surpluses, or how long it would be until the blue die faded out of her hair.

"He was scary," Pam shivered, rubbing her neck. "He totally just picked me up. He's so skinny—like a skeleton! Where does the strength come from?"

Or, she could think about _Johnny_.

Devi smiled sardonically. "Maybe he's possessed. I mean, if you found out that he had spooky demon powers, would you be surprised?"

"Hell no," the blond woman snorted. "But how do you know him? You did know him before… things changed, right?"

"Yeah." The grin died. "It's a long story. I don't want to tell it."

"Oh. Okay."

Pam carried on sorting blankets in silence. Beside her, Devi fought the memories again. They were too painful—but she supposed they were better than thoughts of the town only streets away.

Todd poked his head out the door, mumbling something about collecting blankets.

"Hey there, little man," Pam grinned, grabbing the pile of thicker bedspreads. "How you doing?"

"I'm okay…"

Devi thought he looked more terrified than anything else.

"So, I was wondering," the Wiccan started, "What's it like living with the big bad wolf?"

The boy stared at her, confused. "You mean Nny? …It's kinda scary, I guess," He finally answered. "It's scary, but it's not that bad. It's a lot better than living with Dad. And I still have mom, so…"

"What happened to your dad?" Devi broke in, curious. His drugged up excuse for a mother had never mentioned a husband, but Todd seemed to know him anyways.

"He tried to sacrifice me to the god of kitchenware, the day after Lights-Out" he answered, taking the blankets, "But Nny killed him before he could do anything."

"That's… terrible."

"Yeah, I guess," Todd shrugged, "but that sort of thing happens to me all the time."

And then he backed out of the room, leaving the women staring at each other incredulously.

All the time?

-Z?-

_"How does he know all that?"_

"Does anyone else think he might not be… entirely human?"

_"Where's he from, anyways?"_

"Would you call me crazy if I said he kind of reminds me of a serial killer?"

_"I don't think anyone besides Devi ever met him before."_

"You know, my mother used to talk about demons a lot… I never took her seriously…"

_"He's scary, isn't he?"_

"Devi trusts him, though."

_"I don't know how, but the man really knows what he's talking about."_

"He's right, too. My dad used to talk about that… he was a soldier back in the day."

_"I… don't laugh…"_

"Edward says he talked to him once. He says he's smart."

_"I'm glad he's on our side."_

"Me, I don't care if he's the devil himself and that basement of his is the entrance to Hell. No one, I'm tellin' you _no one_, is going to mess with us while he's here."

_"…You're probably right."

* * *

_

_Dear Die-ary,_

_The basement's almost fit for human habitation. I find myself both dreading and, oddly, looking forward to the change. I think I can do this. The feeling I got when I showed them how to cut a jugular was incredible. Like the first cherry-fiz-whiz of summer. I want…something._

_And I'm not sure what it is yet. It's like the feeling I got when I looked at Devi that night, or when I talked to that one man... he had a goatee... I liked him. I killed him though, and I can't remember why. Fuck, is that the kind of person I was? Am?_

_A lot of things changed. I just hope I'm one of them._

_March 24, 1998_

TBC


	7. A Skin Condition

_The Change_

_Summary_: the world is wicked, the world is cruel. No one knows this better than humanity's emotional sewer system, Johnny C. But floods are a thing of the past, and the world is spiraling out of control, and it seems like maybe, this time, the lights have gone out for good.

_Story:_a crossover of Johnny the Homicidal maniac, "Dies the Fire", Invader Zim, and misc. names and places. In which the old world ends, and a new world begins.  
_  
Leading characters_: Johnny C., Devi D, Todd 'Squee' Castil, and the Zim and Dib duo.

_Warnings_: Murder, language, references to cannibalism, speculation on religion, and of course Johnny C. himself.

* * *

_Death and the Lady descended like Night,_

_And wrapped it round their shoulders..._

The city was the crumbling remains of a riot, fires that looked to have been going for days burned at the borders, and broken glass littered the asphalt. Johnny swore a red streak when he saw the 24/7 in a smashed ruin, leaking smoke and blacked goo that might have been smoothie a week ago.

_Fucking horrible waste of a brainfreezie,_ he thought, homicidal urges gripping him with new fervor. When it dawned on him that he might never have any sort of frozen treat again… he didn't cry, but his eyes grew conspicuously wet.

"Nny," someone behind him started tentatively, "we kind of need to keep going…"

The thin man twitched. He had _not _given anyone permission to call him that, but it had, somehow, stuck anyway. And he didn't really know how to stop it either—his usual (fatal) methods were out of reach, currently.

"I know," he ground out, "but I owe this store a moment of silence."

So they stood in silence, until Johnny felt ready to leave. And then, and only then, did they leave.

Devi had suggested that morning that they needed vitamins and nutritional supplements, painkillers and antibiotics and so on, seeing as they weren't getting much of anything from their current diet and the world was looking a little harsher every minute. Johnny had volunteered to go at the last minute, curious to the state of his city and desperate to get out of the all-too full house. Somehow, he ended up leading this merry band of stupid.

Idly, he wondered if the green hair of the one woman in his group would attract malicious attention. It sort of stood out, and if he knew anything about standing out- which he did -it would take a lot more than the end of the worse as they knew it to keep citizens from noticing weirdos.

"There's a pharmacy on that hill," He noted, punctuating the statement with a wave of his favorite smiley-face-handled knife. It made him feel more at home.

Kevin was with him—Kevin, Derek and Gwen. According to Devi, it was Kevin and himself for any skirmishes, Derek as the brains of the operation, and Gwen for medical expertise. Speaking of which…

"So… _Gwen_. How exactly do you know about all these pills we're out to get?" He asked, sidling off next to her as they mounted the hill.

'Because I _won't_ stomach any fucking druggies in my troupe.'

"I'm a qualified nurse," she replied, looking vaguely annoyed but too nervous to make a point of it. "I was working in a bookstore at the Change, but it was only supposed to be until I could find a job at a doctor's office. Hospitals run their staff ragged. Anyways, I know a thing or two about pharmaceuticals."

Ah. Not a druggie at all. Johnny felt maybe a little regretful of making assumptions—but, with the sort of people he attracted, could he really be blamed?

A newly decayed corpse sprawled across the middle of the road ahead, freshly putrescent and nauseating. Its purpled skin gleamed in the dim light, drawing the eye like a magnet. Derek muttered something about hurling, leaving Johnny to take up the lead and simply step over the mass of flesh like any rational person would do. As long as you didn't touch it, you'd be fine.

"It's just a rotting carcass," he tossed over his shoulder. "You'll see plenty more of those soon enough!"

Looking faintly sick, they followed behind him—walking around the obstruction instead of over it.

The four of them forced their way into the building, taking the scenic window route, since someone had seen fit to lock the only reachable door. The unreachable ones were blocked by things that the normal humans tried desperately not to think about. Johnny barely noticed.

It was dark inside the building, though it was daylight outside. One of the men reached for a light switch and halted suddenly, looking embarrassed. Electric lights were like a ghost limb that you just kept trying to use, even though you watched the doctors amputate it.

At Derek's nod, his companions went rooting through the shelves and the crates in the back. Johnny, however, stopped in front of a shelf of greeting cards, mesmerized.

Joke cards, sympathy cards, birthday cards, mother's day, father's day, and valentines day cards collaged the stand, a flimsy paper reminder of what the world considered normal before chaos hit. How did you describe the Change, anyway? What changed, exactly? Yes, the lights and the trucks were gone, but that was only the surface of the turmoil-real depths of change rested in the dark tides beneath.

Of a great and practically utopian society, a capitalist giant of industry and wealth and education, what remained now, only a week from Lights-Out? A shelf full of cards, and streets full of human waste.

He reached out and took one of the papers from its little plastic home, feeling a dying word rest in his palm.

The words were printed between swirls of silver and stylized flowers_: It doesn't matter how bad the world gets, or how hard life is… you are my perfect world._

Oh, the irony. Would he never be free of it?

He tucked the card into his pocket and wandered to the window, wondering seriously, for the first time, about his future. Even mid-day, the sky was darkened from the smoking fires all through town. Campfires out of control, arson, you name it—it all ended with smoggy skies.

He'd killed a lot of people in his lifetime, too many to count even if he could remember more than three years back. But the Change had broken his record at least twice over. A whole city was dying, and it was probably happening in every city in America. The whole planet, even.

Well, he never had liked people, much.

"Who are you guys?" a shocked voice demanded from somewhere behind Johnny.

The murderer spun with his knife out, ready to fight and defend against crazed townspeople, but the sight stopped him about halfway across the room. The kid who startled him was short-ish, with glasses and an impossible swoop of black hair over his head.

"Don't I know you?" He asked, glaring at the hair. It tickled something at the back of his memory, something about weapons…

"Hey! You're that guy from the Wall-to-Wallmart." He glanced down at the very sharp, very shiny blade in Johnny's hand. "I did mention that I was sorry about that, right?"

Gwen popped her head up over a shelf. "Who's that Nny?"

"Nny?" the boy repeated, eyebrow cocked. "Um… I'm Dib. Me and my… friend are living in this store, ever since they rioted my house down. I… They killed my family."

A pained look crossed his face, and it intrigued Johnny—he hadn't had much exposure to people who actually cared about their relatives. He had killed a fat woman's husband once, stuffed his chest with skulls if memory served, and she just kind of stared for a minute. Then she went on lumbering about like the load of whale blubber that she was.

"So, you're kind of breaking and entering my house," Dib concluded. "And stealing my stuff."

"Touché," the woman replied, rounding the shelves. "But the stuff in this store won't last forever. What were you planning to do when it runs out?"

The kid's face completely crumbled behind his glasses. He glanced back at the door he'd come through, remembering something. Derek slid in quietly from the back room, just in case things went sour.

"We aren't sure. Zim's ship won't work, and I never studied any of the lifestyle elements of Native American cultures past the superstitious elements. And we don't even know if things will go back to normal. I thought we might—"

"DIB-BEAST!" another teen—presumably this 'Zim' person—shouted, bursting through the door behind Dib, "We have been invaded by filthy humanoids! There is a big, stupid male in the….Who are these, Dib?"

Johnny and company regarded the loud, shorter boy. He had no nose, and it was hard to tell, but maybe no ears either. Gwen, though, looked like she was appraising them in a different sort of way.

"You're…" Derek squinted in the dim light, "…green."

"It's a skin condition," the green boy snapped, rounding on his friend. "Why did you not tell me that we had visitors?"

"I just found out myself! And it's not a skin condition. He's an alien!"

The shorter boy caught him under the chin with a left hook, successfully knocking him to the floor.

"Have any of you been to Russia?" the alien demanded, turning to his 'guests'.

The three of them shook their heads.

"Then I'm Russian. It's very common in Russia. OH SO COMMON AM I!"

A metal appendage extended out from his backpack and offered Dib a metaphorical hand up. Metal? Moving metal? But nothing electric had worked since the night of the seventeenth!

"What is that?" Derek demanded with eyes wide.

"Alien technology!" the taller boy insisted, and was promptly punched in the forehead.

"My parents were, um, Russian secret scientists. It's very advanced. They used me as a guinea pig for medical experiments."

"Is that where the green skin comes from?" asked Derek.

"Eh… YES! Zim's many physical abnormalities are caused by experiments of parental units."

Gwen snapped her fingers. "That's where I recognize you from. You guys worked for an afterschool program before the change, right?"

The two glanced at each other. "Yes." They answered.

"My daughter was in your class. Tyler. Little blond one that screamed 'DOOM' every five seconds?"

"Oh! Yeah, we... Is she doing okay?"

Gwen ran a hand through her bright green hair. "Why don't you come back and see for yourself? I'm authorized to bring back anyone who'll help us, and Zim's Russian stuff will come in handy."

Johnny frowned behind the group. Not that he had a problem with the additions—he'd already decided that the Asian kid was okay, and he'd deal with the loud one somehow, but it would be nice if someone had asked him.

It _was_ his house they were living in, after all. And his weapons they were using.

* * *

_Dear Die-ary,_

_I had another dream last night, when I stopped to sit on a pile of blankets in the basement. It still smells like death, I think, because Devi wrinkled her nose when we took her to see it._

_But the dream. I was walking along a dirt road, more of a deer trail through an empty plain, and up ahead I could see this big city-thing, made of stone or clay. I couldn't tell. But it was behind a huge wall of red dirt with little people milling around it in the distance. As I got closer, one of the men caught my eye, and I felt like I knew him. I knew him, and I didn't like him at all._

_And he was the reason I was there._

_March 25, 1998

* * *

_

Squee flopped onto a chair that was leaking stuffing, a floor below the earth's surface. He wondered, as he pulled the strands of cotton away, how they would get new armchairs if there was no electricity. No factories. No lumber mills. No irrigation systems.

He hoped Pepito was okay. Scary kid, but nicer than most humans. Hopefully his underworld connections would save him—not even Squee's rub-off bad luck could trump that. Come to think of it, he hadn't been around the last week before Lights-Out.

The boy looked around Johnny's basement. He supposed it was his basement now, too. When Devi first arrived, Johnny had gone down and dragged all the left over corpses into a far down level—very, very far down. Johnny estimated ten stories. Then, with Squee's help, he had closed off the entrance seven levels down. And by closed off, he meant pushed two strange contraptions in front of the only door and left tables in front of those.

And when Johnny had mentioned that there were rats and roaches in his basement, the terrified boy had found a bottle of industrial strength rat-poison on a higher floor and poured the whole bottle along the drop-off into the blocked off room. Rats were scary. They spread _plagues_.

But since Devi got here with her people, the renovations had been a lot less horrific and scarring. Mostly it consisted of dragging chairs down endless steps and strategically placing blankets. There were about ten rooms on each floor, and they'd designated bedrooms first, leaving a lot of unused space for personal effects. Squee was helping move those in too.

He stumbled back up the stairs, trying to keep focused on the decorating plans. It was better than thinking about food, and was he ever hungry. It seemed like Johnny was the only one who never complained about the lack of meals, which was kind of funny since he complained about almost everything else. And he was so _thin_, too.

At the top of the stairs, Squee's mom was curled into a ball. He'd been making her take fewer pills the last couple days—she didn't seem to understand that there were no more refills—and it looked like that withdrawal thing was setting in.

He sighed and pulled out a bottle from his jacket. These were the ones that his mom liked best. It probably wouldn't hurt if she had just one.

"Mommy?" he started, "Mommy, I found one of those pills you like. The orange ones."

The red haired woman lifted her head. "Oh." She tried to smile. "Thank you. Mommy needed that. You're a good boy, Tim."

"It's T—" Todd stopped. He was suddenly unsure if he wanted to be Todd any more. Todd had bad luck and nobody wanted him If Johnny could change... "Squee. Mommy, my name is Squee."

"Okay," she agreed, and it was kind of sad. She looked so alone.

She hadn't always been like that. He'd seen pictures of her before he was born, on stage with a guitar or a piano. She'd looked beautiful. That was who he wanted his mom to be.

"Mom." he sat down beside her, handing her the little orange capsule. "You should sing for us. You used to sing, right? You should come out tonight. Everybody misses the radio."

She looked at him, and it was like she was looking up through an ocean, trying to break the surface.

"Maybe, Squee. I'll try. Your father won't like it, though—he never likes me talking about things before. It makes him sad."

No, it wouldn't make him sad anymore. He could thank Nny for that.

-Z?-

Devi heard singing from somewhere outside, and her first thought was to wonder where they'd gotten the CD player. Of course, that was absurd, and it was clearly a live person's voice out back.

But she didn't recognize the voice, even as she got closer. Had they taken in another person without telling her? It was bad enough that she had to make room for the green kid and his friend, but—

Squee's mother?

Across the campfire that had become the standard nighttime gathering, the typically useless woman was singing strong. When had things descended so far into the Twilight Zone?

But there she was, and the whole collection of people sat listening, taking in the music like desert seeps away the first rainfall of the year. Her clear soprano lifted them away from hunger and muscles aching from unaccustomed exertion. Better than sleep. Surreal.

In the end, Devi contented herself to sit as well, and listen. She recognized the song, vaguely, but had little time to place it before the sound tugged her away.

"I've seen the lights go out on Broadway,  
I seen the ruins at my feet,  
You know we almost didn't notice it—  
you see it all the time on forty-second street."

Wind went whipping through the feilds, down the street, carrying the scent of fire and blood. Vatusia's voice caught in it and spun away into the darkness, and Devi's mind followed it into the empty plains of the midwest and the soot-blackened pits of the deep south, and to the crumbling ruins of New York City, where the skeleton buildings rose up above the corpse of America.

"They burned the churches up in Harlem,

Oh, like in that Spanish civil-war.  
The flames were everywhere,  
but no one seemed to care,  
it always burned up there before…"

Through the haze of tiredness, hunger, and drunk on long-thirsted-for music, Devi wondered if maybe, just maybe, her resident void might have a sense of humor.

"I've seen the _rats_ lie down on Broadway-  
Oh, I watched the mighty skyline fall…"

TBC


	8. Tabula Rasa

_The Change_

_Summary_: the world is wicked, the world is cruel. No one knows this better than humanity's emotional sewer system, Johnny C. But floods are a thing of the past, and the world is spiraling out of control. It seems like maybe, this time, the lights have gone out for good.  
_Story:_ a crossover of Johnny the Homicidal maniac, _Dies the Fire_, Invader Zim, and misc. names and places. In which the old world ends, and a new world begins.  
_Leading characters_: Johnny C., Devi D, Todd 'Squee' Castil, and the Zim and Dib duo.  
_Warnings_: Murder, language, references to cannabalism, and of course Johnny C. himself.

* * *

30th

Farming turned out to be a lot like homework. It's tedious, stress inducing, and nobody ever bothers to describe it in novels. Johnny had gotten them out in the neighborhood a few days earlier, the day they'd discovered that no one had any idea what to do around plants. The skinny man, looking exasperated, had shown them how to cut furrows with a trowel and evenly space seeds… and so on.

The movements came so naturally to him—as if the land were an extension of himself, or he an extension of the land. She had wondered out loud where he'd learned the skill, and everything froze up. That horrible waiting-for-the-ax-to-drop feeling she was so irritatingly familiar with rose up twice as strong as usual as he stood there, turned away, hand twitching. Eventually he answered, "I don't know," turned on his heel, and stalked away. No one got stabbed, though, so Devi considered it a sort of victory.

"It would be nice if we had a plow," the woman grumbled out loud, stretching her abused back. Two hours they'd been transplanting today, and she was learning very quickly to hate roots and bricks.

"Well where are we going to get one?" Pam retorted, looking like a pagan gangster with her tattoo and bandana. "Derek may be a carpenter, but he's no miracle worker. You'll have to go to another theology if you want that combination."

The blue-haired woman snorted. She was too tired for a whole laugh.

Rationing was tight, especially now, and coupled with daily manual labor, it left a person with spasming, weak limbs and an acid chewed stomach. Plus, you had to wake up at daylight if you wanted to miss the hottest part of the day—and while it was only spring, working under the sun was no Alaskan picnic.

"I just know this is gonna give me scoliosis," Tyler muttered somewhere behind them. She had taken to using four syllable words as often as possible, and scoliosis must have had a nice ring. She'd used it twice already.

"Relax," Pam sighed, "We'll have something in the way of a plow soon enough. Just be glad you aren't planting any wheat. You _need _a plow for that. All we're doing is shoveling out holes."

Devi looked down at the blackberry bush she'd transplanted. It felt like a lot more than just holes. She supposed that they were just lucky to have found the plants at all—they were super resistant to drought, cold... they were practically weeds.

The blueberries, on the other hand, were a bit of a gamble. They- in this case, _they _being Johnny -had planted two rows out back, where the madman insisted he'd been burying fertilizer. No one had asked questions when Derek uncovered bones in the soil, but Pam had been very concise about not planting anything else in Johnny's yard.

"I wouldn't have tried to plant the blueberries at all, anyways," she had said, looking slightly nervous, "but Johnny did pretty much all of it himself without asking. What with the basement spanning most of his property, there won't be any good reservoirs of water."

So they had started planting in Squee's lawn and a couple other neighbors'. For some reason, there wasn't an inhabited house anywhere on the street. That was something no one asked about either.

For now, Devi was discovering that there was a rhythm to the planting, if you kept at it long enough: measure the five feet, shovel out the dirt, drop the plant in, pack the roots down, empty half a bucket, and repeat. It was easy to let your mind wander after a while, and hers wandered to the thick skinned certified seed potatoes waiting in the basement, and to the pomegranate and apricot trees Johnny had stolen. She had to wonder how he'd gotten them back to his house without a truck….

The presence of fruit trees had gotten everyone's imagination up and running, and Gwen had thrown a fit when they told her tea trees couldn't grow in their climate. Devi was secretly relieved. Tea was such a hippy drink, and truth be told, sometimes it was just nice to rain on the New Age parade.

At the moment, it was just the girls out planting crops. Edward was away on _buisness_, Ben and crew were cleaning up the basement, Johnny and Derek were off working on that god forsaken plow, and she'd ordered Zim, Dib and Squee out into the forest to look for the river she knew ran through.

_No rest for the wicked. And still so much more to deal with..._

The ocean had been roughly a day's drive away when they had cars, and some rivers ran directly from the shore and into nearby forests. She remembered visiting a big one in middle school for painting lessons, and if memory served, it was no more than a mile from this very house. Surely there would be a branch close enough to walk to—it might be life or death, with the way their water supplies were running low. God, what they needed was a _well_.

"Okay, let's take a break," Devi called, waving a soggy handkerchief over her head. "Tyler, you run get the water jugs, I need to talk to the adults about some serious buisness."

The girl scampered off, looking annoyed, as the rest of her group gathered round. Devi looked at the faces, listing each name silently. Pam, Tenna, Tess, Gwen, and, uh, Squee's mom—Vatusia, that was her name—who was looking ready to drop. How to broach the subject?

"Okay, let me tell you where we stand. Thanks to that cache of grain, it looks like we'll have enough food to last us through the summer if we ration it right, and these bushes will be yielding fruit by late May, plus there's Nny's smoked whateveritis waiting in the basement. The bottom line is, we have enough food."

Ah, but that was only the good news. As for the bad news... She'd gone into town the day before, and the sights had left her curled up late into the night, unable to sleep. Half horror, half guilty conscience—and she'd only been into the suburbs.

"I was out on a scavenging party yesterday, and I saw some serious shit. Out here on the edge of town, we haven't seen much of the craziness, but it's definitely going on. And it's getting worse. We have to extend our reach as much as possible, take in some more people. When I was heading back, I saw a man eating... Never mind. The point is... we have to do something to help, or Karma is going to kick our asses half way to Valhalla."

The women looked at her with wide eyes. What? Now was not the time for recounting horror stories.

"See, the thing is, the Spiderman clause applies to everyone. Food is power, and we have more than most, even between over a dozen of us. And if we have power now, our responsibility is to save as many people as we can." Sigh. "So, I'm picking a rescue group. The job will be to go out and bring back anyone who seems like they really need help, or might be an asset to the group. Any orphaned children are a must. I want volunteers—fighters and people with good judgment. We'll hit up the guys later... I've already got a scout in town."

Tess tentatively raised a hand, with Gwen a second behind her. For a wonder, Vatusia actually put her hand up too.

"Alright girls," Devi said, a moment of pride flashing through her, "then let's get to planning."

-Z?-

Edward dove behind a garbage dumpster, heart beating wildly.

On the road where he'd been came a mob armed with trowels and machetes, wide eyed and shrieking. They ran wildly at a near-by window, smashing it to smithereens with the tools, and with bare hands in a few cases. They were looking for him. At their head was a monster of a man, six feet tall if a foot, with a wild beard, and… calm. That man was fuckin' _scary_.

The former accountant had not signed up to fight a psychotic mob of cannibals. And yet, here he was hiding behind a dumpster while a band of what used to be housewives and bankers bayed for his blood only feet away. Now why did he have to go and piss off the one rational guy in a city full of idiots?

"Reconnaissance mission my ass," he hissed.

But if his half-finished psychology/Anthropology degrees were worth anything near the student loans they cost, he could put a couple things together for sure. Like, leaving a bunch of white bread, suburban idiots alone in a town after the apocalypse was sure to cause social regression. They were hungry. They were hungry, thirsty, and confused, and things were only getting worse as time went on. The mob of two legged animals marching past his hiding place should really not be a surprise to anyone. If they hadn't been trying to eat him for dinner, he might have felt bad about the whole situation.

"Pst. PSST."

Edward looked up. A small face was staring at him from a window above his head, and if it whispered any louder, it would definitely give him away.

"What?" he hissed back.

"You can hide in here. I'll pull you in."

Edward glared suspiciously at her. She could be working for the cannibals!

"No, I'll just wait here."

"Fine. I'll come out and hide with you."

Before the man could even widen his eyes, the little girl jumped out of the window and landed beside him without so much as a sound. For a wonder, the horde hadn't so much as blinked. They remained seated in silence till the last of the danger had passed, and then he turned to the girl with narrowed eyes.

"What the hell were you thinking? You could have broken a bone or attracted their attention!"

The kid shrugged. "Well, I'm going with you one way or another and it seemed like a good idea at the time."

"What do you mean you're going with me?" he demanded. "And who says I have anywhere to take you to?"

"You did." she rolled her eyes, "if you didn't have anywhere to take me, you would have just said that."

Fantastic. All he needed was a pint-sized wise-ass to compound all the other problems in his life. He had a very simple mission, with very simple guidelines—or at least he had, until the goddamn cannibals decided he'd look good on a plate—and good-faith rescues had not been on the agenda.

"Look kid, I'm just on a scouting mission, I can't bring back every baby that crawls across my path. Go back to your parents, and good luck."

The blond girl glared at him, and it was surprisingly intimidating. "I have no parents anymore, luck is worth shit, and I've been living off a jar of poppy seeds for the last day. I'm going with you."

Edward looked at her. She looked at him. There were bruises on her arms and a bag of clothes already at her side, half hidden underneath her skirt.

The man sighed again. "Well, we better get going before they come back this way. I have no intention of becoming a barbeque sandwich today."

She grinned as he stood, knees cracking, and took his hand.

"What's your name, kid?"

"Delano."

"Weird." He frowned and took a second look at her dress. "I'm Edward."

"Yeah, and I'm the one with the weird name? That sounds like some dead English guy."

-Z?-

Johnny stepped back from the work table, wishing for the hundredth time that he could have one working light bulb instead of all those godforsaken candles.

"I don't get it!" he cried, kicking the wall in frustration. "Something fucked up is happening here, and I _don't like it_."

Derek looked up, regarding his companion with a mixture of amusement and edginess. Johnny could get positively terrifying when angry, and they both knew it too- which put him in the unsettling position of trying not to look too scared while remaining carefully respectful. He must have been suceeding.

"Look, does it really matter how this is happening, as long as it can help us?"

"Yes it matters!" Johnny kicked the wall again, harder from the sound of it. "Someone or some_thing _is toying with me, and I've had enough of that to last several lifetimes. I want answers, goddamnit!"

"Answers to what?" someone on the stairs inquired, cutting through Johnny's anguish.

It was one of Devi's original girls, Pat or Pam or something. The tattooed one with the calcium deficient nails.

"Answers," Derek calmly answered, "as to why he knows more about plows than I do, and he's never so much as touched one before today. If... this counts as a plow."

The Wiccan blinked. "So he knows how to make them?"

"No, that's the strange bit." The brunette man sat back heavily in the nearest chair. "He can't draw one up, but every time I get my plans worked out, he'll look it over and tell me I'm wrong, it doesn't look like that. And then I'll look it over myself and I'll realize he's right."

"Fuckin' spooky 's what it is," the murderer mumbled.

"Well," the woman mused, scratching the tattoo on her cheek, "It's possible that you're just remembering a class from middle school or something. Could that be it?"

Johnny looked at her darkly. "I have no _fucking _idea. I can't remember a thing from my life before a couple years ago. Blank slate. Fuck, I could have majored in pilgrim history for all I know!"

"You... have amnesia?"

"How should _I_ know? I don't remember anything."

The blond woman wandered around the room, hand never leaving her tattoo. Johnny supposed vaguely that it was a thinking habit. Devi rubbed her fingers together when she was concentrating—he remembered asking her about it in the bookstore, once.

"SO… you have no memory of your life or who you were before a few years ago?"

"That's what I said."

"And you never went to see a doctor or a psychiatrist about this? It's amazing you even know your own name."

Johnny laughed, imagining himself in a doctor's office without descending into a murderous rampage that would make Stalin quake in his boots. Sure, that was likely. He couldn't say, though, that it wouldn't have been nice to ask somebody real for answers, for once.

"The whole _name _buisness is a bit tenuous, I'll admit. But I painted most of the pieces in this house-" he gestured at one particularly creepy eye on the far wall, "and I signed them Johnny C. So that has to be my name."

"Incredible," the woman murmured. "I don't think you grasp what a big deal that is. Fuge Amnesia is incredibly rare. Perhaps you were an anthropology or history major in college? It would explain the plow, at least."

Derek, who had watched the conversation with a neutral expression so far, broke into a sudden grin.

"Or maybe," he chuckled, "you're getting _visions _from a past life."

Pam laughed too, but Johnny was quiet. The Wiccans were just cracking semi-religious jokes again, but… what about the dreams? Didn't visions usually come in dreams? What if, in fact, the dreams were coming from the same place as the inexplicable knowledge of the plow and of anatomy?

It was indeed... fuckin' spooky.

TBC


	9. The Shadow Knows

_The Change_

_Summary_: the world is wicked, the world is cruel. No one knows this better than humanity's emotional sewer system, Johnny C. But floods are a thing of the past, and the world is spiraling out of control. It seems like maybe, this time, the lights have gone out for good.  
_Story:_ a crossover of Johnny the Homicidal maniac, _Dies the Fire_, Invader Zim, and misc. names and places. In which the old world ends, and a new world begins.  
_Leading characters_: Johnny C., Devi D, Todd 'Squee' Castil, and the Zim and Dib duo.  
_Warnings_: Murder, language, references to cannabalism, and of course Johnny C. himself.

* * *

1st

On the night of the first, Devi's crew gathered around the campfire to hear Edward's report, and the incredible story he carried back with little girl.

As it turned out, taking Delano along was possibly the most useful thing Edward could have done on a reconnaissance mission. The girl had been living in the city since Lights-Out, and she'd seen all of its changes first hand, knew most of the story by heart.

She told them about the early days, when the mayor had tried to hold things together. Runners had gone door to door, informing residents of new policies and collecting food, which was supposedly rationed among all the citizens. No one ever actually _saw_ the government handing out dinner, though. The courthouse had been serving as a headquarters, and it was the safest place in town for a while. Devi and company had missed the beginnings in the course of their escape.

But outside, the gangs—and mind you, these were former motorcyclists and students, smalltime groups—they were raising hell and driving people crazy. It had gotten so that looting was a way of life, practically a day job, and the police were confiscating carts of inventory from every store in reach. About a week after things changed, the houses between downtown and Johnny's homestead had caught fire, raging like crazy until the highway cut it off.

They were unreasonably lucky that there had been asphalt to stop it. And, perhaps, lucky as well that the fire had stopped people from venturing their way.

After that, the mayor lost what little control he had gathered—likely a good thing, since he'd been shaping up to be quite a tyrant. But before his body was so much as buried, a new face had stepped in. The man's name was Armando Cortez, and he was ruthless. Delano had never seen him, but her sister had.

She told them that he was Mexican, with black eyes and a black coat to match. Some of the boys called him _Negro_—it had started as a joke, but it stuck. He'd gone out and stood in front of the capital one day, dressed in black from head to foot, and preached to anyone who would listen. He warned them that there was only one way to survive, and that he could help them. His disciples brought out plates of roasted meat and offered it to anyone who would stay and listen. You can imagine, it caught on with people.

He spoke of many things, but chief among them, his willingness to do _anything_ to survive. When he finished, he pulled a man's head from the inside of his volumous coat, all bloody and sallow, and tossed it into the midst of the crowd.

This, he said, is your lunch. Looks like a nice guy, doesn't he?

It was held that he grinned at that moment, and the closest people looked up and saw that his teeth were stained red, blood red.

The panic was predictable, but his message spread despite that. People continued to come to his sermons day in and day out. Steadily, the crowds grew and the city split in half. Pro-cannibal and anti-cannibal. April twenty-ninth, almost a week after his debut, Cortez rallied up his followers and declared war.

If you weren't with him, you were dinner.

Delano's mother (her father had been out of town when the lights went out) refused to go along with murder for any reason, and had ended up amongst the first round of victims. Her sister, only three years older, had been killed getting them both into the very apartment that Edward had hidden beside.

Delano was twelve years old, and smart for that. She pieced together pretty much the whole story for them, but there was one thing she couldn't tell them.

"So what happened to the mayor?" Gwen asked, drumming her now chipping nails on the equally chipped plate across her lap.

The girl shrugged and said, "Dunno. People just stopped talking about him one day. He probably died, but who knows… maybe he's got red teeth now, too."

And a chill swept over the congregation.

-z?-

"Stupid kid," the redheaded woman groaned, stumbling away from her son. "Where's my pills, Tommy? Mommy needs her pills."

Her son stared up at her with a pained expression, hands twisting anxiously. "It's Squee, remember? And those pills are bad for you. They're bad, and they're running out."

Things between Squee and his mother had deteriorated in the last couple days. She knew that he had her medicine, and he refused to hand it over, so they reached a draw. The lines around Vatusia's eyes were deeper than ever before and her face was pale, a constant sheen of sweat making her growing withdrawal obvious to the world.

"Sweetie," she managed in a strained voice, "give mommy her pills. Mommy needs to forget you."

"No."

"Yes!" she staggered forward, hands out. "Haven't you ruined enough of my life? I just— "

An arm caught her around the waist, cutting off her cry. She stared dumbly at the pale skin, uncomprehending, before finally looking over her shoulder to get a look at her assailant.

"…Devi?"

The younger woman stood as still as a marble statue, hair shimmering in the candlelight. "Vatusia. What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

Blink. "I'm getting my medicine back from the boy. He won't let me have it."

"Damn right he won't. You're a _mess_. Would you want _your_ mother tripping around like a stoned dog on god knows what for who knows how long?"

The older woman didn't reply.

"Well, _would_ you?"

"...is it so much to ask," Vatusia asked in a strangled voice, "to just forget? I don't ask much, I really don't. I eat less than anyone here, I volunteered for your scouting mission, I even plant those horrible bushes in the garden. Can't I just have my pills?"

Devi pulled her around so that they were face to face.

"Yes, it _is _too much to ask. We can't afford to have you like this, and frankly, you can't afford it either. Look at you! What gives you the right to sink into your chemically induced buzz world and leave the rest of us here to thrash it out with reality? What gives you the right to treat your kid like a badly trained pet?"

"_My whole life_!" the older woman screeched, so loudly that Devi took an unconscious step backwards, but Vatusia didn't care who heard her. All she wanted was for Devi to be _sorry_, goddamnit. The whole world should be sorry for her!

"I lost every single dream I ever _had_ when that bastard was born!" She carried on, "I was signed up for a record deal, did you know that? I was guaranteed a spot in a musical and the whole fucking _works!_ Then James comes swooping in with his hot-fucking-stuff routine, and I say to myself, 'one time can't hurt', but what the fuck do you think happened? I GOT PREGNANT! And suddenly, the whole world closes up, and I'm penniless, stuck with that mean _fuck_ of a husband and this kid that I _never wanted_."

Tears rolled down the mother's face, and she pointed violently at Squee.

"I just—I just want to forget. J-just let me have the pills. I'll do anything. I'll learn to cook, I'll give you all my rations, I'll—I'll…" she broke down to incoherent sobs, sinking into a huddled heap on the floor. "I—hic—I'll do anything."

The blue-haired woman looked down at her with a face carved in unforgiving stone, entirely pitiless. She held out a hand to Squee, and the boy placed his mother's pill bottle in her palm. The sobbing continued.

"Yeah, you _are_ going to do whatever I say, and no," the younger woman ground out, "you _won't_ be getting these back. Do you know why?"

Vatusia shook her head, still curled into a ball.

"Two reasons. One, because these little ovals turn you into a complete basket case, and by the way, I'm surprised Nny hasn't sunk a knife into your ribs for being so fucking destructive. The second is that you're completely destroying your son, acting like this all the time. Children need love; they need something solid to hold onto."

"_How do you know_?" the older woman screamed. Good god, she was out of her fucking _mind_. "You've never had to raise a kid; you've never been a mother!"

"No, I've been a daughter!" Devi bent down and took hold of Vatusia's arm. "My parents spent my entire childhood ignoring me or punishing me, or shipping me off to live with relatives in the middle of nowhere—I've been on the receiving end of careless distaste, and I _know_ how much it hurts."

Devi pointed to Squee, who stood watching with wide eyes in the corner.

"You—with your pills and your emptiness—you disgust me! You're tearing him apart, but he won't complain because he still loves you. After all the shit you've put him through, he still loves you! And you just throw it back in his face," Devi ground out, violently wiping away a renegade tear. "Look at him! This kid _loves_ you. He'd risk his life for you, he puts up with you endlessly zoning out all because he loves you. Do you love him back?"

Vatusia only sobbed harder, weakly attempting to tug away from her leader's grasp.

"_Do_ you?" Devi demanded, sinking nails into the mother's arms.

"Yes, okay! I do love him. I just can't stand remembering," she whimpered, "and I don't know how to be a mother! No one ever taught me. No one… ever…"

The blue-haired woman let go, finally, and regarded her comrade with something close to pity. After a minute or two, the crying subsided.

"Look, Vatusia." The mother looked up at her, jarred by the sudden soft tone. "Your life hasn't been easy, I'll admit that. But all of that is behind us now. We're in a new world, and if nothing else, you have a chance to redeem yourself. I'll give you two options: you can leave the group now and take your chances on the streets, or you can step up to the plate and make up for all those years as a wastoid. Your choice."

The older woman looked down at her son, who looked back with wide eyes. Was she even capable of change after all these years? She'd begged god for death so many times—was it possible to live after that? It would be hard, so very hard… maybe more than she could take.

Squee smiled sadly. "It's up to you, mommy. But I want you to stay."

Vatusia burst out in tears again.

* * *

_Dear Diary,_

_Squee's mom has been different the last couple days. I didn't use to see her very often, because she was always off in a corner popping pills. I swear, if she wasn't Squee's mom…_

_But yeah, she's been different. Less dazed, actually displaying some initiative. All she's ever done before is follow directions, and slowly at that. Now she's off doing things, and actually paying attention to Squeegee. I asked him about it. He says Devi had a 'talk' with her. Knowing Devi, it was not the sort of thing you argue with._

_She's tough. She's not like other women._

_I just wish she'd stop flinching whenever I walk into a room._

_April 3, 1998

* * *

_

Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? The shadow knows, and so does Johnny C.

He had them all pegged, sorted and assigned in his head. Each of their little flaws highlighted in red pen, all of their vices underlined or starred. They passed in and out of his house at all hours of the day, and brought life to the place that had once been synonymous with death.

He'd begun to find what made them tick, as well. Perhaps all that time he spent funneling the emotional waste of humanity had sensitized him to it, or maybe he was simply good at reading people, provided he didn't kill them within minutes. But whatever the reason, the pieces were fitting together.

Derek was the first one he figured out—a carpenter, and he believed strongly in his Goddess. Motivated by a need to help anyone he could. He had abandonment issues.

Then it was Tenna, Devi's best friend and thus a priority of sorts. She was a chef and a good one too, if not a bit heavy-handed on the noodles. She was out to make everyone happy, often serving as a tension-breaker. She'd been teased heavily as a child, one of only a few black children in her whole school.

Then he caught a lead on Gwen—the discontented, then Kevin—the street rat, then Pam—no nonsense under all that new age stuff, and then it was Edward, Vatusia, Tyler, Dib…

…and so on.

And yes, Johnny did know what lurked in the hearts of men. He also knew exactly what punishment would atone for those evils, and how incredibly hard it was to look past them. God, it was so hard.

When it got too much for him, he hid in his bedroom and lay on the unused matress, reminding himself why he was there, and that he was stronger than that. Stronger, damnit! He was in control of his own impulses, and he was not going to kill these people.

It worked, surprisingly. Though there were times when he couldn't get away, for whatever reason, and the need to _maim_ and _kill_ thrashed in his body like a wild animal desperate for escape… so he looked at Devi. She was all the things he loved in the world, things that occasionally frustrated him too, but nothing he would ever purposefully harm.

And just like it had done before, back in the bookstore where they first met, the thought returned his fragile sanity. Calmer, now, he could look at the people who surrounded him night and day and see that they were—in fact—not terrible people. Petty and stupid at times, but capable of true humanity when the moment struck them.

There was real, true love mixed in with the jealousy and lust; there was genuine intelligence tossed in with prejudices and lies. If he could only focus on that…

And after all it, Johnny sat alone and reflected. Who knows what evil lurks in the heart of men? He did—but he knew more than just that.

So he fashioned himself a new shirt, just like he used to. And it read 'THE SHADOW KNOWS'.

-z?-

Devi was wrangling a pony into a plow yolk when the alarm sounded for the first time.

It was on a trumpet they had procured from a music store on one of the latest raids—which were getting more dangerous with each excursion. Above all else, they had to avoid detection, since they had yet to figure out a good defensive line, and they had to be able to scatter quickly. So, the trumpet.

Two bursts, and the company fell into place, children hiding in nearby houses, their worst fighters rushing for cover as widely as possible. Devi fell into line next to Johnny at the front, backs facing the house. She caught a maniacal glint in his eye as she reached for one of the bows Pam was passing out, a hint of the insanity she had always suspected lay beneath his skin. She could only hope that this time, it worked in her favor.

The two of them stood together in the lead, heart beats matching, with their comrades spread out behind.

Some dozen men marched down the road against them, dressed in the signature black of Cortez's following. They carried machetes and one or two brightly colored bows, which probably originated in a shooting gallery. At their lead stood a bearded man with wild eyes, who clutched a wicked axe.

"What do you want?" Devi called out, when they stood only a few yards apart. "We can't spare food, and we can't house travelers."

The bearded man appraised her, a stance that indicated he didn't hold with women ordering him around. "Negro called claim on your land," he said, and his voice was deep and rough. "And we're here to take anything worth taking. Anyone who wants to join us can, but if you get in our way… it won't be pretty."

The party at Devi's back shifted uneasily. She casually moved one hand behind her and made a peace sign, followed by an open hand. _Hold until my signal_. Subtly—and a few not-so-subtly—her company shifted into an offensive stance, ready to move on order.

"I've heard of you," she said, "Lenin, right? Cortez's right hand man. What're you doing out here in the boondocks? My troupe is the only set of people around, and we're no match for your crew. Surely Negro wouldn't send you out on a fool's errand like this…"

The bear of a man laughed. "No, I came for myself to see an old friend. I heard from a fairly reliable source that you were hosting a certain Kane Holt? Medium height, wears glasses, nasally voice?"

A ripple passed through Devi's company. Kane was Gwen's brother, and currently hiding in one of the neighborhood's abandoned houses due to a sprained ankle.

"That's impossible!" Pam burst out. "Kane is a midwife!"

Lenin stared at her and then burst into raucous laughter, loud and rasping. After a minute solid, he wiped a tear from his eye and straightened up.

"No wonder I could never find him! I never would have _guessed_ a hospital. Smart bastard, I'll give 'im that." The fearsome man took a step closer. "No, I knew him in the mafia years ago. Little branch of a big gang, but I was just getting started at the time. Old Kane was a killin' machine. Never would have pegged him for a doctor—patients must've been running for their lives."

"I never got that impression from him," Devi mused, leaning on her bow, "he must be an incredible actor… or he's got amnesia."

Another fit of dry chuckles, and Lenin stepped even closer. His men looked a little confused, and definitely off kilter.

"Lady, you have no _idea_ what he was like back in the day. It's funny enough to think of him living in this rustic little foldout, but as a _midwife_? Where _is_ the dog, I have to call him on th—"

"NOW!" Devi yelled-her voice cutting through the dark man's speech like a knife through butter.

His men sprung to attention, and Lenin sprung back into line, but it was just a second too late. Five of Devi's eight could shoot to kill at this distance, and four of the red-teeth were down before Lenin could give a single order.

Devi was suddenly incredibly grateful for the mind numbing archery sessions with Johnny, and his insistence on learning to draw fast. The man himself was loosing a shot every five seconds, missing a good number but hitting a few as well.

The bearded man screamed for his men to fight, and the sudden charge coupled with a scarcity of arrows switched the dynamic to knife-fighting too quickly for a blink. Devi herself whipped out her kitchen knife and caught one man through the eye, then turned to knock another in the forehead with its hilt. Feet away, Pam the pacifist left a lethal slice in one unfortunate throat. Chaos.

Quick as it started, the melee dissolved apart, leaving Lenin one side with five men and Devi on the other with her entire party, minus one. Her wrist felt jarred… hopefully, it was nothing.

The leading man looked her over again, this time with something bordering on respect. "I lose this one," he observed, hefting his fireman's axe. "But you won't be so lucky next time. Little gift from me to you, lady. I won't tell Negro a single thing about you guys. I'll even tell my men not to either. All you gotta do is build up your strength, make this a real challenge."

"You want a fight." Devi said, and it wasn't a question.

"Yeah," Lenin agreed, "I want a good fight. And I want to win it, too."

And then the six of them turned and departed, leaving their fallen comrades on the grass where they fell.

One of the women they'd rescued from the city spat on the corpses in disgust and dropped her knife.

"Well," the woman said, "they'll make good fertilizer, at least."

* * *

_Dear Die-ary,_

_After holding back the killing impulse for weeks now, battle was like a high. I wasn't even sure who we were fighting, but fuck, it was good._

_And we kicked ass too. I am… proud of these people. They actually learned something, they fought to kill and they survived. Not just survived, but won. And then we used the dead ones for plant food. I don't think Devi was happy about that, but she wouldn't try reasoning with… them. Especially after the battle high._

_It's hard to believe these people were out there in the world all this time, waiting for a catastrophe to bring them together. Have there always been people like this, or was I just lucky for once in my life?_

_April 7th 1998_

TBC


	10. Reconcilliation

_The Change_

_Summary_: the world is wicked, the world is cruel. No one knows this better than humanity's emotional sewer system, Johnny C. But floods are a thing of the past, and the world is spiraling out of control. It seems like maybe, this time, the lights have gone out for good.  
_Story:_ a crossover of Johnny the Homicidal maniac, _Dies the Fire_, Invader Zim, and misc. names and places. In which the old world ends, and a new world begins.  
_Leading characters_: Johnny C., Devi D, Todd 'Squee' Castil, and the Zim and Dib duo.  
_Warnings_: Murder, language, references to cannabalism, and of course Johnny C. himself.

* * *

_11th-_

"Don't loosen your grip on those things!" shouted Johnny, gesturing wildly with his signature, smiley-face handled dagger. "Fuck, pestilence ridden _red-teeth_ could keep a better grip on those things."

Disgusted, he tossed his knife in a random direction, missing a woman by mere inches judging from the shriek. He slunk to the same shady corner where Devi rested, viewing her troupe's progress. No practice for her, until her wrist healed from yesterday's strain.

"You're comparing them to cannibals now?" She asked with a small grin, unusually relaxed.

Out on the field, Pam was struggling to lift her sword, sweating profusely in the spring heat. As soon as she got it into the air, a breeze would flutter by and knock her to the ground.

"Well, maybe that's not fair. Cannibals have some descent nerve." Johnny took a seat beside his comrade. "Your crew couldn't scare a pair of bunny slippers off Squee's feet."

True as that was, he couldn't help but be proud of them. They might not have the fearsomeness of experienced killers, but they put their all into the training. They worked for it. And at this point, a voice in Johnny's mind was asking him if, in the end, he really _wanted_ them to become killers at all…

"Not my fault," Devi replied, dragging him back to the present, "If anyone's to blame for that, it's you. After all, who's been training them for weeks now?"

The murderer looked at her carefully. "You're in an awfully good mood today."

Immediately, the blue-haired woman tensed, hand twitching toward the small kitchen knife she now kept in her boot at all times. Oh, why did he have to say that?

"It's a nice day out, _Johnny,_" she replied, "I have no work and there was bread for breakfast this morning. I'm allowed to enjoy my down time."

It was funny. Half of the people in the house called him 'Nny', none of whom had he given permission to, and the one person he wouldn't have minded it from refused to call him anything but Johnny. He remembered the way she used to say it, before things went sour, and the smile on her lips when she said it, the spreading of her lips that dissipated the sound into a happy breath.

"Devi, you're so defensive. I mean, you're always freaking out on me for the smallest things…"

"Ugh, I can't believe you don't _get_ this."

Devi grabbed him by the arm and dragged him around the side of the house, away from prying eyes. Posture spelled, "gearing up for a tirade". He looked away and realized that she was still muttering.

"…I knew you were clueless, but _fuck_." She groaned, looking ready to punch someone. "Johnny, you tried to kill me a year ago. Kill! That may not seem like a big deal to you, but to me it's not just an insult, it's a constant, _draining_ problem! How do I know that you won't snap again? How do I know that you aren't just biding your time until the next attack?"

The maniac stared at her. "Devi, I would never do that—"

"How do I _know_? Why should I trust you for anything at all? Clearly, you don't even stop for the people you care about. I mean, you and me, and you… God. You're an ass, you know that?"

"I never—"

"What? You never _did_ anything? What world are you living in? How do you expect me to forget the shit you put me through, all the months I spent hiding in my apartment? I can't, Johnny, No matter what you've done for my friends… or for me," she finished, looking suddenly very tired and pained.

She looked up at the clear blue sky, breathing deeply. In the next minute, Johnny tried something totally foreign to him—he put himself in someone else's shoes.

'Suppose', he instructed himself, 'you were a woman. A woman with really bad taste in men. You meet a guy that you really like, and he seems to like you too. You go on a date. Everything is perfect. Then, for reasons you know nothing of, he pulls out a knife and tries to kill you.'

He ran through the night in fast-forward with a point of view shift, and a grasp of the experience eventually formed. He winced. It looked… different from her side of things.

"But Devi! You have to understand, at the time, I thought I was being… um... romantic."

The woman gaped at him.

"Nothing about stabbing me repeatedly with a knife struck me as particularly romantic!"

"Well," Johnny admitted, "it does seem pretty silly now, but I wasn't thinking straight at the time."

"Silly," she repeated, looking incredulous. "It was a bit more than silly. In fact, it was like a nightmare world from which there is no waking."

"Okay. It was bad. But in my defense, I was certifiably insane at the time."

"Oh, and you aren't now?"

"No, I don't think so. It's very difficult to tell, but I'm pretty sure. You just have to… trust me."

"Trust you! _Why_ should I trust you?"

Johnny said nothing for a long time, trying to think of a good reason. He looked up at the sky again, as if it might hold all the answers he searched for. What did he have to give her?

"Because," he finally said, "I never stopped caring about you. And because of all I've done for you and your friends there. I hate people, and here I'm living in a house with a dozen of them. This is hard for me. I'm _trying_, can't you see that? I'm trying to change, to get better. Not just for my sake, but for you too."

Silence again. Something twisted in Johnny's chest, and he was sure that Devi was going to punch him… and he wondered if maybe he deserved that. It had been a long time since he last wondered such a thing.

"Fine," Devi sighed. "Fine. I'll try. For their sakes."

Johnny grinned. At that moment, he could have walked through Café Le Prick wearing a 'Tobacco-Free' t-shirt without dismembering a single person.

Oh yes, he was happy. Very happy.

--

Zim paced the floor of his room, conveniently shared with Dib, muttering to himself in a hissing language. His roommate sat in the corner, wearily observing.

"Zim, could you at least _try_ to be rational?" the dark haired boy asked, exasperated.

"Zim IS INCREDIBLY RATIONAL!" the green boy screeched.

"Yes. Because screaming at me for giving you advice is completely understandable."

Zim simmered, pacing even more furiously. Dib thought that it wouldn't be long before he wore a groove into the concrete, and maybe he could use it for hatching ghost worms—wait, that wasn't relevant. And everybody knew that ghost worms needed electric voltage to form cocoons! Silly.

"Night and day," the noseless boy muttered, "I'm surrounded by earth-smellies. I can't take off the wig, can't take out the contacts—OH HOW THEY ITCH! And I can't contact the armada. This is like HELL."

Dib was thoughtful. "They already know that you look weird… why not just take the contacts out?"

"BAH! And have _you_ telling everyone that I'm an alien? Again? No, no, there is no relief for Zim."

"Look," Dib started, uncomfortable with the situation, "if I swear not to start up the alien thing, will you take out the contacts and _leave_ them out?"

The foreigner stopped dead, turning to stare at Dib. His companion shrugged nervously, attempting to look trustworthy.

"Why would you do that?"

"I… well, none of your technology works, except the stuff in your PAK, and you can't contact the mother ship… it just seems mean to leave you like this. We're kind of friends, right?"

"_You_," Zim pointed out, "are a filthy Earthenoid. And _I_ am a proud Irken invader. You've been trying to turn me in to the authorities since I got here, and Zim has been trying to kill you with rabid gerbils. DOES THAT SOUND LIKE FRIENDSHIP TO YOU?"

Dib blinked. "Well, we _are_."

The alien resumed his pacing. "What guarantee is there that you will not go back on your word, Dib-thing?"

"The fact that we're friends, I have nothing to gain, and that living in close quarters like this, you could very easily kill me in my sleep."

Hmm. Now, why had that thought only just occurred to Dib? They'd been here for days, sleeping in the same room.

"Well, Zim _is_ mightily superior to your race in every way… even with my technology rendered useless by the white Blast… Very well! A handshake, then?"

The human boy grinned. Hey, why not work this to everyone's advantage?

"Alright. So the deal is: you never worry about contacts again, I stop telling people that you're an alien, and you use what technology you still have to help the troupe."

"Eh? This was not mentioned before."

"Look, do you want to do this or not? It'll benefit you too, in the long run."

"Whatever."

So they shook on it, and headed for the door.

On ground level they passed Nny, who blinked at them as if they were _both_ aliens. A quick question told them that Devi was out back, trying to convince some interested parties that an ostrich herd was a bad idea.

Outside, it was sunny, blue day, what was once perfect for fishing or hiking, or any of the things Dib never actually did but had heard about. Boy, he'd been a deprived child—having a famous father could do that to you, he supposed. It might have been nice to go camping once or twice, though, instead of getting an MP3 or a new laptop… he could have looked for Bigfeet…

Zim elbowed him out his revere.

"Devi-human," the green boy started, "I have come to you with a proposition."

Dib looked sideways at him. Where was he going with that?

"The female with the large star on her face might have mentioned that I am… er… not normal," Zim continued, and Dib could see how much it was hurting him to actually admit that. "Did she tell you why?"

The blue-haired woman shook her head.

"Zim's parents were Russian scientists. GLORIOUS SCIENTISTS. They performed many experiments on me… painful ones, I'm sure. The result of these _hideously painful_ experiments is that I do not look like a typical Earthinoid. Green skin, no nose, no ears… and Zim is abnormal in another way, as well."

The alien shot Dib a warning glance, then popped out his contacts lenses. Underneath those were brilliant red-pink orbs, almost liquid in appearance, which contained no discernible pupil.

"Pretty neat, huh? I'm also bald." He slid his wig back to expose a slightly elongated skull and two of what looked like antennae.

Devi's expression was unreadable. "Your parents," she said slowly, "were they trying to make a little green man from mars or something?"

Oh! Dib had an idea, and it was time to make good on that promise.

"Actually, Miss D, they were. See, they started the experiment before the Soviet Union dissolved, and they'd heard about how worked up Americans got over Roswell, so they started building an alien to use against us. Zim here was the prototype, but the government dissolved before they could make more, and you know, Cold War's over…"

The lady only said, "oh."

"And also," Zim took over, looking kind of excited, "in order for the invasion to go smoothly, they developed new technology that served the dual purpose of making Invaders highly advanced—SO ADVANCED—and creating assured destruction in America-land."

"But you know," Dib added, "developing all that technology is expensive, and there were all kinds of scarcity problems in Russia already—"

"So my parents could only make one of Zim, with the bare minimum of expense. But they built THIS!" Zim pointed to the metal pack on his back. "Which is basically a metal brain! The electrical impulses are of the same caliber as a human grey matter, and it stores most of Zim's VAST intelligence as well as his gadgets."

"So," the human finished, "the PAK was never shut down by The Change! At least, that's what we think. And if you'll talk to everyone and convince them not to throw stones at Zim when he takes the contacts out, then he can use whatever's left of the technology to help the Troupe."

Silence. Dib was suddenly aware of the crunchy grass and the vibrant sun, and Devi standing in front of him with that same unreadable expression on her face. He hadn't noticed, but for a few minutes, he'd spun off into another little world made of just him and Zim. Spooky.

"What you're saying is," Devi mused, eyeing the boys, "that you'll give me the only working machines in the entire city, and possibly the world, if I just explain to everyone that you aren't the creature from the Russian Lagoon?"

The two boys nodded.

"Well!" She grinned suddenly, "It sounds like I'm getting the better end of the deal, for once. I'll call a meeting tonight, and we'll explain the situation to everyone—preferably without you two pulling a twin routine every other sentence. The others will probably want you to swear loyalty to the Troupe…"

Devi made a face like she wouldn't have suggested such a thing herself.

"You know, we really ought to think of a name for the group," Dib said. "Like, the Fighting Badgers, or Hearts of Space…"

"Dib," the older lady snorted, "those sound like _band names_. And you can't just think up a title like that, it has to develop on its own. But any way, we'll need an oath of allegiance."

The idea seemed to make Zim very uncomfortable. Well, he _was_ insanely loyal to his leaders back home…

"Ma'am, Zim has some really binding prior commitments… you know, to people in Russia. I don't think he can break those."

The alien looked grateful, in his own Zimmish way.

"Hmm…" Devi's smile was replaced with a thoughtful look, "Well, those people might as well be Galaxies away, with things being as they are. You'll probably never so much as hear from them again. But, if it's really that important… how about a secondary oath? Do you see what I'm getting at?"

A grin broke out on Zim's face, exposing zippered teeth. "Completely, my Tallest. Until the Armada contacts me, or until your regimen comes into conflict with my true-born people's, Zim swears to follow you as a he would a true Tallest."

That sounded familiar… Tallest… oh, wow. Dib met his Tallests once or twice over a communicator telescreen, and he knew how devoted Zim was to them. Devi would have no idea how meaningful that was…

"Tallest?" she asked, glancing at Dib for a translation.

"It's a title," he filled in, "think 'highest'. It's, um, a little different in Russian. But that's the best conversion."

"Ah. Then, I'm honored. What do you say we call that meeting now?"

She gestured in the direction of Johnny's house, and they fell into step behind her. It was nice to have someone calling the shots, especially someone confident and smart like Devi. Dib had never had a mother, but he figured that if he could pick one, Devi would be his first choice.

"You know what?" she mused, hands behind her back, "Your parents went about it all wrong. I mean, what are the chances of extraterrestrial life so closely resembling Homo Sapiens? Only an idiot would make you look so much like a human. It's just illogical."

Dib and Zim shared a look.

"Yeah… who'd believe that?"

_-_

TBC


	11. The Devil Deals the Cards

_The Change_

_Summary_: the world is wicked, the world is cruel. No one knows this better than humanity's emotional sewer system, Johnny C. But floods are a thing of the past, and the world is spiraling out of control. It seems like maybe, this time, the lights have gone out for good.  
_Story:_ a crossover of Johnny the Homicidal maniac, _Dies the Fire_, Invader Zim, and misc. names and places. In which the old world ends, and a new world begins.  
_Leading characters_: Johnny C., Devi D, Todd 'Squee' Castil, and the Zim and Dib duo.  
_Warnings_: Murder, language, references to cannabalism, and of course Johnny C. himself.

* * *

12th

It took Devi all of fifteen minutes to explain Zim's predicament, but it wouldn't have taken so long if Johnny hadn't burst into the account with one of his less lucid rants about halfway through.

"--Those alien bastards are always abducting our cows! Poor, defenseless cows with no farmer to turn to because they don't speak human and the farm hands are too fucking ignorant to realize the cows need help! _They need our help, damn it_! And all the workers say 'oooh, cows can defend themselves', but let me tell you! Those workers do nothing but sleep all day, detestable brain-rotting sleep, no doubt recovering from a night of filthy alcohol imbibement at some hooker club—"

Yes, he got like this sometimes, particularly when he was remembering the world pre-Change. It was unnerving for the whole house, because no one was quite sure how to deal with it, or what would happen to them for trying—plus, who really wanted to argue with Johnny, even when he was sane?

"—And the milkman lied! Yesss, he was full of poisonous lying shit, that one, but I knew because his nose was shaped like a monkey's toe, which is really just a human thumb—"

Devi remembered these rants from a long time ago, during those three months when Johnny used to visit her in the bookstore where she worked, before their disastrous date, and she remembered that the best thing to do was to simply let him run out of steam. It finally petered off after about five minutes, and then the madman turned on his heel and stalked into the house, muttering about cheese wheels and flying saucers.

She figured she would just have to explain the situation to him later, once the crazy worked its way out of his system, and thusly went on with her elucidation as if she'd never been interrupted. You learned how to do that when you lived with Johnny.

"And I don't want to hear about anyone making fun of Zim," she concluded, "or anything vaguely to that effect. If I catch someone, it's water hauling duty for the next month." And _no one_ liked that job. With the days growing gradually hotter and hotter, and the buckets weighing what they did, the trek from the river to the house was sheer hell.

"So… you expect us to believe that he's the product of a Russian scientist's experiment?" one woman asked, tone neutral.

"Yes," Devi answered.

"And that the scientists were his own parents?"

"…Yes."

"_And_ that he's been living here, under our noses, in disguise for over three years?"

"Um… yes?"

The woman jumped to her feet and nearly tackled to green boy in what looked like a very bosomy hug. "Oh, you poor darling!" she cried, echoed more or less by all the women around the campfire.

The alien looked positively terrified, desperately glancing at Dib—who was laughing too hard to be of use to anyone at all. Devi turned away from what was quickly becoming an estrogen-pumped group hug, ignoring Zim's shouts of "Traitor!" and "Free Zim at once!", and joined the chuckling Dib at the fire's edge.

"Not very touchy feel-y, is he?" she mused, observing the five-on-one wrestling match.

"Zim? He'd dip himself five times in liquid _plastic_ if it wouldn't suffocate him in the process. I remember he came into class in bubble-wrap once… I stole his pencil case and he couldn't even chase after me, he was so layered up."

"He's a strange one," she agreed, but more concerned with the technology on his back than his personal weirdness. After all, he had Dib for that, didn't he?

So the two of them sat at the fire's edge and observed the small green boy fight his way out of that hellish pit of affection, as the moon rose somewhere over the treetops behind them.

--

A bow is a complex machine, not so much in operation, but in manufacturing.

Johnny and Derek sat at a bench on one of the basement's upper levels, puzzling out the nature of bow-making on a sheet of hearty construction paper, browned a bit on one side from a close call with the floor's fireplace. Pencil lines traced the basic shape, dotted lines indicating spots that would need additions and gluing, neat notes at various places along the sketch indicating materials and such. There were scrawled notes at the page's edge as well, written in a spidery script that was all sharp angles, indicating what draw would need what size and strength, and what wood would work best.

These kinds of projects always ended up between Derek and Johnny because they made an excellent team when it came to designs, and the designs they drew up always worked. Derek could cover the mechanics and the technical side, while Johnny tempered it with the practicalities and his inexplicable knowledge of how things _worked_. Which, being inexplicable, of course frustrated him to no end.

"Do we even _have_ yew trees around here?" the Wiccan asked, folding up his trusty drawing compass.

"Hmm. You know, I have no idea," Johnny answered, feeling rather pleased with the work accomplished in the last hour. "But I don't see why not. I suppose we could send out a search party to scour the woods…"

"And if we can't find any?"

Johnny waved a hand, saying, "Sassafras or hickory will work too, the tempering will just have to be stronger so we'll need more fat--"

Johnny froze, thin fingers splayed in mid-air, and Derek took an unconscious step backwards. And then the madman swung into frenzied motion.

"God damn it!" he screeched, whipping a knife out of his boot and throwing it wildly at the nearest wall, where it struck point-first and quivered. "God-fucking-_damnit_! I have no control; I can't even figure the shit coming out of my own _mouth_!"

"This always happens," Derek pointed out in his best talking-to-dangerous-animals voice, "It hasn't changed at all, Johnny. Why are you still so bothered?"

The smaller man rounded on his companion, eyes blazing. "You don't know what it's like! You don't know what it's like to live day in and day out at the mercy of whatever sick fantasy takes control of your mind, to fight constantly for a vestige of control and logic, only to have it crumble beneath your fingers! You've never had to figure out which part of you was _you_ and which part was someone else toying with you. You've never fought to understand what the hell you _are_ while the world twists and dissolves around you! You've never come so close, so fucking _close_ to sanity only to have it ripped out from under you time and again! _You don't know_!"

Hands spread wide; Derek approached Johnny very, very slowly. "No, I don't. You're right. But why this? Why does _this_ bother you so much?"

Johnny's legs gave out and he collapsed onto the floor in a sniffling heap, scrabbling for another knife somewhere on his person. Derek figured that those must be a kind of security blanket for him, which in turn made him wonder what the poor man's life had been like before the change. A soldier, perhaps? He looked too fragile to be a gang member.

"Why?" the strange man answered flatly, finally, "You want to know why? It's because whenever I do that…that… talking thing, it's like someone else is talking through me. Like there's someone else in my head, answering questions I don't know the answers to. And, I wouldn't be so worried if it was just something in my head, but it's _talking_. And words… words have always been the only thing I could fully control. It was sometimes as if I _was_ my words—my words or my actions. And now that my actions have changed so much…"

Derek sighed and sat himself, wishing Devi were here… she always knew what to do. "Johnny, you've clearly been through some awful stuff, and I probably wouldn't understand any of it. All I can tell you is that you are what you are… all of you. The parts you like, the parts you don't, the parts that you couldn't begin to understand in a hundred years. It's _all_ you. See what I mean?"

Johnny sniffed. "Maybe."

They sat in silence for a few minutes while Johnny collected himself and Derek recovered from the panic that these rants never failed to create. He thought he should probably be used to them by now, since he and Devi were the only people that Johnny willingly talked to—beside the Squee kid, of course. You might even say that he and Johnny were… friends. In a way.

"So," Johnny started, fully recovered, "not to pry into other people's business, but I was wondering if you could put a rumor to rest for me. I despise rumors, shallow, inconsiderate things that they are, but I do have to wonder…"

"Sure," Derek smiled, relieved to be past the flipping-out part of their conversation. "What is it?"

Johnny blinked at him, almost cutely—if a 5'9, spiky-haired insomniac with eerily gaunt cheekbones could look _cute_—and asked, "Are you gay?"

The more normal of the pair burst out laughing, finding the question absurdly funny. "Y-yes," he managed between breaths. "But who… told you?"

Johnny shrugged. "Someone blond. Blue streaks in her hair, big, annoying eyes. Googly eyes like that deserve to be popped out and taxidermied."

"Oh," Derek nodded, no longer disturbed by those kinds of violent comments, "that's Clarice. She tried to join our coven once, but we decided that she wasn't serious enough… she just treated it like it was a fad or a badge of some sort. You know, the thing about religion is that whatever you believe in, you really have to _believe_ it. You can't just slap on a label and ignore all the things that make it what it is."

"Religion is a joke," Johnny said, shaking his head, "and not a very good one. It's just a way to scare people into following orders, nothing more than a box to trap people in so that they can't get a good look at the opposition."

"Maybe it's become that," his companion consented. "Still, I think it has the potential to do good in the world. It can bind people together as surely as it can break them apart, and it has rules that keep people from destroying each other."

"Organized religions are just institutions like any other. All of them, corrupt, old, bigoted… happy to step on anyone in the way just to hear them shriek when their fingers break underfoot…"

"What about spirituality in general? Like, outside of churches and so on."

Johnny looked at him, eyes suddenly dark and inexplicably old. Derek fought back a bit of a shiver, sure that this was the price he payed for dealing with a maniac.

"I don't know about that," Johnny answered in a voice as dark as his eyes, "but then, there are some things even immortal man cannot comprehend."

--

"Sooo… any old business?"

The entire troupe lounged around the fire out back, in what had become a nightly ritual. About twice a week, the entire population—yes, all twenty-something of them—gathered round and went over affairs. Devi would circle the fire throughout the meeting, speaking or no, and Johnny would linger at the edges of the fire, not saying much but making his presence known.

Devi had noticed how her people looked at him, especially lately. In the beginning, they'd kept clear of him, hyper sensitive to the primeval vibrations radiating from his thin form. A predator. But ever since training had started… the looks had turned to something resembling awe. Respect, maybe, with a hint of fear.

He did tend to bring out the soldier in people—she never would have guessed it. And when he talked, people shut up and _listened_.

One of the new recruits was talking about cheese rationing and cows, but for once, Devi wasn't paying attention. Much more interesting than dairy products was the way people's eyes unthinkingly flittered towards Johnny to gauge his various reactions. They did that to her too, she'd noticed.

Sometimes it felt like she and Johnny were the parents of this group, or the two guardian book ends, like the old yin and yang. She remembered the way she had unthinkingly fallen into step days ago, at the head of the line with Johnny at her right, as if she was a cog slipping into place.

"—What do you think, Devi?"

The pacing woman halted for a moment, startled. "What?"

Tess sighed through her nose, a sure sign of exasperation. "I said, we'll need to make new clothes pretty soon, with the way field work wears through cloth, _what do _you_ think, Devi?_"

Oh. "Right. Well, before anything else, we'd need a source of fabric. Nobody around here grows cotton, and silk is out of the question… what else do we have?"

"There's hides," Pam offered, "and I know more or less how to cure them… we _were_ a neo-Native American coven, and it was part of the lore, you know? But we haven't done much hunting…"

"What about yarn?" someone piped up.

"We'd need sheep for that, or…"

"Or plant fibers."

"But no one knows how to do that, do they?"

"Well, there _is_ this one kind of cactus…"

"But we could get sheep—"

"There's a petting zoo a ways away that might have some surviving animals!"

"Even with all of that, who could make the threads?"

"Does anyone know how to spin yarn?"

"I think my mother knows, but I haven't seen her since—"

"I watched something on the Discovery Channel about it once!"

"_Kevin_ knows how."

Abrupt silence ensued.

All eyes turned to the dark haired teen, who turned a rather unflattering shade of red and glared daggers at Ben—the one who'd ratted him out in the first place.

"_Kevin_?" one of the new guys managed, "are you kidding me?"

An understandable reaction--Mister Kicker-of-Asses was not a likely candidate for Weavers Weekly. Devi snickered.

"What?" Kevin demanded, attempting nonchalance, "it's a relaxing hobby and it's _plenty manly._"

Ben on his left broke out laughing and toppled off his chair. "You… you don't even want to know… where he learned it…"

"Not _one_ word, Tennyson," the older teen pushed through gritted teeth.

Calming herself, Devi intervened. "It doesn't matter where he learned it, just that he can. Kevin, are you any good?"

Still red, he managed, "I was, a year ago. But it's been a while, and I'm rusty."

"Practice can be arranged. All that matters is if you remember _how_."

"I do."

"Then," Devi smiled sincerely—and she knew that she didn't do that often—"we'll find some sheep, one way or another. I'll be assigning scouting parties tomorrow, so be out here before noon. I think that wraps that up."

Eyes shifted back to Tess, who cleared her throat.

"Okay, next on the agenda is Mendocino National Park. If you remember the reports, it's about a day and a half walk from here, and the hunting should be good, so if we could just…"

And just like that, Devi was back to her thoughts.

--

"_The Devil went down to Georgia; _

_He was lookin' for a soul to steal_

_He was in a bind 'cause he was way behind, _

_and lookin' to make a deal…"_

Devi looked up from her notes to seek out the source of the song. She'd been looking over plans to fortify the street against invasion, but even the ball of anxiety and borderline obsession this latest project knotted in her stomach couldn't keep her away from the music.

"…_When He came across this young man _

_playin' on the fiddle and playin' it_ hot

_and He jumped up on a hickory stump _

_'n said 'Boy, lemme tell you what!_

_I bet you didn't know it, but I'm a fiddle player too—_

_And if you care to take a dare, I'll make a bet with you!'_"

With light steps, the leader left her desk and opened the door just a crack, glancing out into the hallway. One barrier removed, she could tell from the voice that the singer was female and young, pretentious too. Suddenly, she was pretty sure she knew who it was.

_"He said, 'Now you play pretty good fiddle, boy, _

_but give the Devil his due:_

_I bet a fiddle of _gold_ against your soul, _

_'cause I think I'm better than you.'_

_And the boy said, 'my name's Johnny,_

_and it might be a sin…'_"

Oh, was that interesting… Devi almost laughed at the idea of her—er, _their_ Johnny betting anything against the devil. The man was smart, but he wasn't that kind of calculating. Nny was more likely to rant at the supernatural deal broker until he was blue in the face than to swindle anything out of him.

_"…'But I'll take your bet, you're gonna regret,_

_'cause I'm the best there's ever been'."_

Of course, she could somehow imagine him saying _that_.

Around another corner Devi found the source of the strange rap/song/poem—because it was surely not a conventional singing rendition—sitting on the lowest step of the staircase, reciting to a small audience. It was Delano, all blond hair and stage presence, basing in the glow of the metaphorical limelight.

"_Johnny risin' up your bow and play your fiddle hard _

_Cause Hell's broke loose in Georgia and the devil deals the cards _

_And if you win you get this shiny fiddle made of gold _

_But if you lose the devil gets your soul."_

At her feet sat an audience of rapt children and two amused adults. The children—Squee, Tyler, three new acquisitions and Dib—soaked up the words as if their lives depended on it, and the grownups—Edward and Gwen—focused on their own child also as if nothing else mattered in the world.

Well, Devi was taking liberties with that. Edward was not Delano's father, or even a relative. On the other hand, the former-accountant had spent more time with the kid than with any one else since they'd arrived at the edge of the property, gasping and covered in grime.

_"__The devil opened up his case _

_And he said, 'I'll start this show.' _

_And fire flew from his fingertips _

_As he rosined up his bow..."_

Gwen looked up and caught sight of Devi leaning against the doorway. The nurse smiled as if to say, 'can you believe this kid?' and Devi almost snorted. People were strange animals, and children were the prime example of that. Everything that an adult had the potential to be, kids exhibited in unadulterated abandon. Cruelty, kindness, stupidity, brilliance, confidence, _showmanship_…

"…_And when the devil finished, Johnny said, _

_'You play a pretty good show, old son,_

_But you just sit down there and lemme have my share, _

_And I'll show you how it's done_!"

The kids really _did_ look spellbound. Devi realized, as the chorus started, that this was what she was working to save. These kids, even if she'd never been a children-person, were so incredibly… valuable. They were hope. They were, as politicians liked to put it, The Future. This whole crusade, the whole effort was for them. They were all the moments of the last month when she'd felt like crawling into a hole and surrendering to the world, and still she'd gotten up to fight again.

"_Fire in the Mountain, Run boys, run,_

_Devil's in the house of the rising sun,_

_Chicken in the bread pan, pickin' out dough,_

_Granny does your dog bite? No child, no_!"

All that struggle, just so she could stand hidden in a doorway while a preteen girl rapped a Charlie Daniels song to a group of wide eyed kids. And after all that fight, all that hunger, all that _and_ the knowledge that there was more yet to come, was it worth it?

_"And the devil bowed his head at that, _

_'cause he knew that he'd been beat, _

_And he layed that golden fiddle on the ground at Johnny's feet,"_

Of course it was.

_"And Johnny said, 'now you just come back here _

_If you ever wanna try again,_

_I done told you one, you sonuva gun,_

_I'm the best there's ever been.'"_

The children clapped and the adults smiled, and Devi slipped back into her study that smelled suspicious even on a good day. Life went on, she supposed, and that was the beauty of it. Even with all the fast balls fate had thrown their way lately, life went on.

Smiling slightly, she returned to her diagrams, already spinning out ways to get the job done.

_-_

TBC


	12. Tate's Hell

_The Change_

_Summary_: the world is wicked, the world is cruel. No one knows this better than humanity's emotional sewer system, Johnny C. But floods are a thing of the past, and the world is spiraling out of control. It seems like maybe, this time, the lights have gone out for good.  
_Story:_ a crossover of Johnny the Homicidal maniac, _Dies the Fire_, Invader Zim, and misc. names and places. In which the old world ends, and a new world begins.  
_Leading characters_: Johnny C., Devi D, Todd 'Squee' Castil, and the Zim and Dib duo.  
_Warnings_: Murder, language, references to cannabalism, and of course Johnny C. himself.

AN: The story of Tate's Hell is--supposedly--a true one, and rather good for horrifying children, particulalry animal lovers. If it sounds interesting, you might want to google it.

* * *

_Dear Die-ary,_

_The familiar claustrophobia is setting in. I spent a lot of time about a week ago searching out entrances to other houses from the basement…. There's Squee's obviously, but I'm not telling anyone about that yet. It's Squeegee's house, and I can't just let people barge through there at all hours of the day. Plus, I've been using it to escape the people sometimes. _

_Good God, how many have we taken in now? It has to be in the upper twenties by this point. Devi… I respect her for helping all these people… I actually do. She's so strong and completely confident now. I remember when we met; she was so… pissed off at everything. And now…_

_But for all that's worth, it doesn't change the fact that I'm living in the same house with a squad of smelly humans! Fuck, I can feel the itch setting in. Focus, Johnny. Think._

_I should talk to Devi. I should tell her about the trapdoors in the neighboring houses. Why didn't I think to do that before? It's so obvious!_

_Of course, I… I never have been good with details, have I? Shit. I never noticed that either._

_Frustratin#####nit. _

_April 12, 1998_

_--_

Devi slid into the book store like a ghost, draped in black and dripping wet as lightening cracked somewhere high overhead. In her hand was a bag—more accurately, two bags: one sturdy cloth wrapped in a waterproof plastic. Gwen slunk in behind her, closing the door silently. They had brought the equipment necessary to break in, but clearly the manager had forgotten to close the doors in his mad rush to escape…

The blue-haired woman pointed to her companion and then to the opposite side of the room. _You take that side_. She herself turned, lit herself a plain white candle, and began to riffle through the shelves. Occasionally, she pulled out a title and examined the back cover, either shaking her head and returning it or dropping it into the bag. Another of the cloth and plastic carriers rested against the shelf, just in case her loot took more space than the first offered.

One book in particular caught her interest, an instruction manual on Native American lifestyle habits, and she quickly slid it into the collection. A book of world myths joined it soon enough, along with a book of fairy tales—the uncut versions, not the childish princess stories parents seemed so fond of.

Devi wandered till a third of her candle had dripped to nothing, gathering books that filled one of two purposes: provided instructions for how to make a living off the land, or offered acceptable reading for young children. The first category was easiest, being a straightforward information search, and she had quickly filled the bag with those. On the entertainment side of things, choices became more complicated.

She had puzzled over this in the days before her mission, taking the time to explore, finally, what a world without electricity meant. If things continued on this way forever, what would televisions and light switches and cars mean to her children, or her children's children? It would be like magic, far off and impossible to comprehend. How do you explain DNA to a child who can't even look through a microscope to see a cell? How do you explain electromagnetism to a child who will never be able to attach a magnet to a fishing pole and pick up nails? How do you explain cars to a child who has never seen on rolling down the highway, never heard an engine crank to life?

It occurred to her that there are many things we believe only because we see.

Perhaps stories of the old days would become to these future children what science fiction had once been to her. Or maybe it would be incomprehensible gibberish. Besides which, the world of tomorrow wouldn't have high schools and football teams, or lawyers and interior designers. There was no telling if kids would be able to get past that barrier and grasp what was once realistic fiction.

Uncomfortably aware of this, Devi put together a rudimentary list of books she had read herself, giving herself a sort of base to work from. First, she would need a few beginners' books. Novelized versions of Disney movies would serve nicely, and some princess fairy tales, because the wording was always simplistic.

For that, there was a picture book of _Pocahontas_, which came out a few years before, and a copy of _Miss Spider's Tea Party_. Holding that made her feel very nervous for some reason, as if the store assistants from her days working here would suddenly pop up behind her and make derisive comments like they used to.

After that, elementary level books were in order. An anthology of Edgar Allen Poe's various works, Tom Sawyer and his friend Huck, and a copy of _Alice in Wonderland_ all made it into the pot, followed by _Black Beauty_ for Tess, and _Wind in the Willows_ for Delano, and two Native American folktale books for Pam: _Moon Mother_ and _The Rainbow Warrior_. Some very thin book caught her eye, their covers showed everything from ninjas to astronauts, and she pulled four of those off the shelf. She came across a copy of _Shades of Gray_ and swiped it—she'd whiled away one particularly awful summer in '90 with that book, debating the morals of the civil war with her aunt Janet.

Now for the middle School books. The first Harry Potter book—her friend had mentioned it once and the title stuck in her memory, and it was about magic, right? Hopefully that wouldn't confuse the children too much. A couple comedic looking books about the middle ages made it in—what? They had to learn history somehow. _Robin Hood_, some more Indian-lore type novels, something Chinese, a fantasy, _An Acceptable Time_ and _A Swiftly Tilting Planet_ by Madeline L'engal… she was running out of room in the sack!

Devi called Gwen over and handed over a chunk of her collection—the doctor had barely grabbed a thing, just a book of anatomy and two art anthologies. Seeing the empty space, Devi promptly dumped the contents of her first bag into her friend's and went on collecting.

The next thirty minutes passed in almost a trance, and by the time Devi resurfaced, her arm was protesting painfully and the candle was very low. Her wandering led her to the religious section of the store, face to face with an archaically fitted bible. Now the question was, should she bring a pre-change religion into the troupe? Personally, she disliked the Christian church _and_ its mistranslated bible, but did she have the right to deny it to anyone else in the house?

And if she didn't, then was it her duty to also grab a Koran? Or a Torah? Or a collection of Buddhist works? Or Starhawk? Actually, she should get that either way, Pam requested it.

_Okay_, she thought, breathing deeply, _let's look at it this way: The Bible is in a lot of ways a work of history, so I can take it for its historical value. It has most of the same things as the Torah, so I don't need to get that, I think. Buddhist writings are valuable for their worldliness, and maybe I should get a copy of the Vedas too. Yes, that will work._

Devi sighed and quickly collected what she needed, calling out to Gwen that it was time to leave. They met at the front desk, pulled their hoods up, shouldered their bags, and ran like hell into the drizzling, pitch black night. Devi's rapidly disappearing candle flickered quietly in the window behind them as their silhouettes faded into the rain with the patter of nervous feet on wet pavement.

--

Devi turned a corridor about five stories underground, absorbed in a handful of papers and hoping not to hit any walls in the navigation/reading process. Zim's reports were almost as rambling as his speech, given to long tangents and contradictions, but interesting in spite of that. In fact, the kid reminded her of Johnny in a way; certainly they were both out of their minds fifty percent of the time.

She heard voices from the other room on her left, mostly an older man, and stopped a bit before it to listen in. Between the never ending work and the lack of movies or TV now, there wasn't much to entertain a person with, and what she was hearing sounded a lot like a story.

"—they found him laying at the edge of the forest, near dead. Of course they tried to patch him up, but it was no use. He looked up at them, all dirty and broken, and with his last breath he says, 'gentlemen, my name's Tate, an' I been through Hell'."

Oh, the end of a story, and one she'd never heard before. How disappointing. Quietly, Devi slipped into the room and observed its occupants, leaning against the doorframe.

"Did they ever find the dog?" a girl named Zita asked, attempting to look as if she couldn't care less. Dib had identified her a while back—apparently they'd been classmates, and the Change had been hard on her. He said that Zita's reddened, bruised skin had once been a thing porcelain dolls envied, and her now ragged mauve hair was once a flawless lavender. She'd also been rather popular, too.

"I can't say I know," the storyteller answered, grinning slyly. "But dogs tend to be a good lot smarter than men-folk, so who knows?"

The man caught Devi's eye and winked. He was tall, with almost black hair and skin the sort of tan that spoke of year-round sun, and deep laugh lines broke up his otherwise young Anglican face. They'd picked him up on the road back from the national forest, wandering alone and armed with a rusted machete.

As the children at his feet dispersed, arguing now the finer points of canine-to-human intelligence, the blue-haired woman made her way over.

"That sounded like an interesting story," she said, eyeing the kids' backs as they trickled out the door. "I'm sorry to say I only caught the end."

He smiled and gestured at the last of his disappearing audience. "Tate's Hell, sure 'nough. It's a favorite back home—there's a swampland a ways a way from where I grew up, and the story of how it got its name appeals to kids in particular."

"Where did you grow up?" She asked. The accent sounded southern, but beyond that she couldn't have guessed.

"On the banks of a river where the water's equal shades of brown and blue," he answered with a mock poetic air, "and from the banks the palms rise like puffballs between the wind-twisted pines, all their boughs bearded by Spanish moss, and bowlegged cypress trees stretch from the edge of the shore and river grass."

"And is everyone there so… eloquent?"

"No," he laughed, shaking his head, "But Florida folks are a bit of an… eclectic sort. There's a lota room for variation."

"What were you doing in California?" She inquired, vaguely curious. After all, they were almost on opposite sides of the country.

"Hunting trip," he replied, smile fading. "My guide went to look for help when the truck stopped workin', and he never did come back. My friends… ah… they got themselves in somethin' of a jam."

Devi wondered what kind of 'jam' it had been, that this man survived and his companions hadn't, but she figured it wasn't something you asked about.

"Anyways," he went on, recovering his good humor, "I never did introduce myself properly. Name's Billy, pleased to meet you." He stretched out his right hand.

The blue-haired woman shook it with her unoccupied hand. "Devi Darington, apparently Tallest of this little community, if you listen to what the green kid says."

"Oh, I know who you are," he grinned, walking to the door and stopping to wait for her. "Be real hard to live 'round here and not. But the green kid?"

Frowning at the idea of her reputation actually proceeding her—what _kind_ of reputation was it, anyways?—she replied, "His name's Zim, and he's got some strange ideas about how things should be run. He has half he house calling me 'Tallest' now, though I think, I hope, most of them are just humoring him. He can get a bit psychotic at times."

She and Billy strode down the hall, her showing the alien's latest reports and him inquiring curiously about the house dynamics. It took a while to explain the concepts behind the rationing and task forces and their strange brand of farming, but by the time she'd gone through it all, Billy volunteered to help out with the hunting and, happily, fishing.

"I noticed you aren't far from a river, and where there's river there's fish. I'm guessing you haven't got any yet—no poles, right?"

Devi nodded. The skills involved were in short supply, and not even Johnny could mojo them into some fishing rods… in fact, he had no _idea_ how to catch the scaly creatures, period.

"That's okay," the southerner went on, "I can make my own. See, my grandmother was a wonder with a fishin' pole, and she taught me everything she knew way back when. Though, she never cleaned a fish in her life—she always used to say, 'William, be careful what you learn, 'cause once you can do, it'll always be your job.' So na'traly, I had to get my grandfather to teach me."

In spite of herself, Devi's expression turned wry. Billy was a nice man, clearly smart, and looking to be useful, but he could talk the ears off a rabbit. It occurred to her that months ago she would have been feeling him out for potential date-ability. It also occurred to her that she _wasn't_, which was the puzzling thing.

Her criteria for dating had always been: nice, handsome, smart, liked movies, and—recently—not insane. The Change had turned more or less everyone either very nice or very mean, and all the stupid people had died quickly. Movies existed no more, and… well… insane was a relative term anyways.

Devi's eyes flicked to the left, unconsciously aiming for a glimpse of her city, where she knew the sky would be tinted grey and the farthest houses blackened from an escaped fire weeks ago. Yes, insane was a relative term.

"So what's this _Johnny_ man like?" Billy asked, cutting into her revere.

"What?"

"Um… Nny? Johnny… what's his last name… Carson? Castle? 'C' something…"

"No, no," she waved a hand, "You're right. Johnny Castil. Why do you ask?"

The tall man shrugged, looking away. "I've heard some things. I've been here almost a week, but I haven't seen hide 'r hair of the man. They tell me he's one skinny sunuvagun, with big brown eyes and spidery fingers. They also tell me he's half demon and a vampire and a soldier and a gang member _and_ a shinigami… whatever that is."

"It's a Japanese death god," the woman responded automatically, "like a grim reaper. Naomi probably told you that."

"Yeah. But really, who is this guy? Half the gossip around here involves him somehow, and I wanna know what's real and what's people seeing things they want t' see."

Who _was_ Johnny? Well, that was a question for the ages, no matter how you turned it. She'd asked him about it once or twice in the last month, and even he couldn't answer the question, being both unstable and an amnesiac. Weird that she'd only just found that last one out.

"He's criminally insane," she answered finally, "sometimes paranoid, sometimes depressed, sometimes manic, sometimes eerily clever. Sometimes, he even acts like a normal person. But he also has no idea who he is, or why he does what he does, knows what he knows. We've talked about it a few times. He is, as Rorschach said, 'a man looking for answers'."

"Has he found them yet?" Billy asked, sounding genuinely interested.

"_No_."

Billy and Devi swung to face the subject of their conversation, leaning coolly against the wooden doorframe, arms loosely crossed.

"And, you know," the thin man went on, "it's not nice to talk about people behind their backs." He gave the southern man an icy glare, dropping the overall temperature of the hallway by about two degrees.

"Johnny," Devi sighed, "give him a break. He's new, and he just wants to know the truth. Shouldn't you be applauding him for asking question instead of looking like you're about to slit his throat?" Sometimes Devi had the distinct (eerie) feeling that no one else could get away with talking to her ex-boyfriend the way she did.

Johnny wavered. "He should have asked _me_."

"Oh, like you would have given him anything besides a blow to the head, let alone a coherent answer?"

The madman was silent for a moment, eyes flickering back and forth. Finally, he replied, "I suppose you're probably right. But he could have _tried."_

"Agreed," Devi said briskly, taking her tall companion's arm, "But if it were me, I know _I _wouldn't have."

Johnny, still leaning against his door, appeared oddly troubled by that innocuous statement. With a final half-glare, the dark man disappeared down an adjacent hall with his steel-toed boots making a fading clack on the hard stone floor.

The woman glanced up at her companion, brow raised. "Answer enough for you?"

"Yeah," Billy replied, shakily. "He's, ah, a bit intimidatin', isn't he?"

The hall rattled with the sound of Devi's startled laughter, the force of which actually collapsed her knees. The laugh made her smile. There weren't a whole lot of things to laugh about lately, and it was nice to finally have one.

_-_

TBC


	13. The Day I Died

_The Change_

_Summary_: the world is wicked, the world is cruel. No one knows this better than humanity's emotional sewer system, Johnny C. But floods are a thing of the past, and the world is spiraling out of control. It seems like maybe, this time, the lights have gone out for good.  
_Story:_ a crossover of Johnny the Homicidal maniac, _Dies the Fire_, Invader Zim, and misc. names and places. In which the old world ends, and a new world begins.  
_Leading characters_: Johnny C., Devi D, Todd 'Squee' Castil, and the Zim and Dib duo.  
_Warnings_: Murder, language, references to cannabalism, and of course Johnny C. himself.

* * *

_Dear Die-ary,_

_I feel rather conflicted. Devi is not mine. She might have been mine once, but if attempting to murder her didn't end that, then that promise I made did. I said I would give her my nothing, and I said I'd rid myself of all emotions for her. Granted, that experiment failed, but isn't the sentiment the same? I gave up on us. _

_On her. _

_On me._

_So really, I don't have any right to be jealous. Indulging in those feelings would be… a weakness, and allowing my human impurities to control my life. I won't do that. I told Meat when I got back, I may have to live with my emotions, but that doesn't mean I have no control over them. I mean, even if I _am_ my emotion, I'm more than that. That's what separates a real human from a fucking waste of air: the super-consciousness, the ability to reason outside of _feelings_ and _wants_. I am slave to nothing! I live in symbiosis, grudging at that, with my organics—and that includes emotion. Fuck you Meat! FUCK YOU._

_What was I writing about?_

_Oh yeah. Really, I just want her to be happy. So it's probably better if it's not me._

_April 14, 1998_

-

Who was the first man to build a wall? Who was the first human to think of protecting his home like that? It must have taken a genius, a great leap of the mind, to consider remaking nature in such a way. Perhaps it was only an extension of a cave, at first, or a hillock heightened with stones.

"You have to wonder," Devi murmured, "if the man who invented walls had any idea what he was starting."

"He didn't," Johnny answered, not noticing her start. When had he walked up behind her?

They both looked out at the incoming trains, mesmerized.

"All he thought was, 'they won't make it over _this'_. And then he added another glob of mud."

Out along the street, logs were being dragged into formation by sheer manpower. It wasn't an easy task, but the entire troupe was out to help, barring Devi and Johnny. Various salvaged wheels were being put to good use, ropes and woodpiles too.

"How do you know?"

Pines, as it turned out, were easy to fell. Or, easier than other trees at least. Tall and rather thin, a two handed saw would have one down in less than an hour, although Johnny could only supply them with one-person saws that in a couple cases resembled those suited more to medical than lumbering purposes. They worked, though.

"I don't know."

Johnny had been notably absent when it came to the actual labor, which had been no surprise to anyone. The man abided by his own rules, ones that no one else _could_ understand or would try to. Devi, on the other hand, had rolled up her sleeves and taxed her thin painter's arms to numbness within the hour. Not to mention her still-healing wrist.

"You don't know a lot of things."

Now she stood apart, resting. The moment she had slipped away to regain her strength, Nny must have slipped up behind her in silent company. She almost smiled—the spooky man was so awkward in the daylight, surrounded by happy, hardworking people. _Strange_ that they were happy, with all they had been through, but there you have it.

"Sometimes I get the feeling it's quite the opposite," he said.

She supposed that there was something nearly unbreakable in the human spirit, an adaptability that allowed mankind its sanity in the shifting fortunes of fate, that allowed them to build a new home even as their last one crumbled to dust and bricks under the onslaught of fortune.

"Well, As Doctor Spock said, 'Trust yourself to know more than you think you do'."

They called depression the rich man's disease, because poor people couldn't afford to waste the time. Perhaps people were naturally happier when they had survival to concern themselves with, no time to waste on much of anything else. Who knew? The only thing she was sure of was that she hadn't thought of her dismal dating experience or unpleasant adolescent experiences in weeks. Well, with one exception on the former.

"From Star Trek?"

Because Johnny was, of course, still near by, and still the leading man in one of her worst memories. A memory that had admittedly faded with time, retaining its frightening vivacity only in the way that a bedtime story retains its horror in the dawn of the next morning. It had begun to fade the day she left her apartment six months ago, now both free of her terrible sickness and her awful job.

"No, Johnny. The one they named him after. The _real_ one?"

After months of seeing neither hide nor hair of her ex-boyfriend, she had very nearly managed to forget the incident. That is, until she literally ran straight into its leading character on what was possibly the most nerve-wracking day of her life to date. And that was contending with all the time that she had been temporarily—but oh so terribly—insane.

"Oh."

He'd done her a huge favor that day, although it took some time for her to grasp exactly how huge it had been. The truth was, she probably would not be alive right now if he hadn't warned her in that odd, prophetic voice of his—the one that wormed its way under her stubborn layer and took up residence in her better sense. It had been the catalyst of the whole operation, and the fine line of survival that all her troupe now walked.

And of course, everything was just a circle, leading her around and around the same two thoughts.

"You know, I know more about you than anyone else here, except maybe Tess, and when I really think about it… even that really isn't much. And you keep telling us, 'I don't know'… Who _does_ know, Johnny?"

Johnny looked over at her, eyes clouded. He brushed his choppy hair from his eyes, mind visibly spinning in vain.

"Not me," he finally replied, "Not me, not you, not them… the Devil knew, but I never got to hear it."

'Uh… what?' Devi wondered—but kept silent.

Johnny caught her half confused, half suspicious expression, though, and clarified, "You know, when I died. I _told_ you I met the Devil. He looked like a _cheerleader_ of all things."

"Are you sure that wasn't just another of your insane hallucinations?" She didn't actually know if he had those, but it seemed like a fair assumption.

"Fuck, Devi, you have no _idea_. _I_ have no idea! But my life has been weird enough that I'm willing to believe it… and I never had anyone around who could tell me if what I was seeing was real. You… well, weird things never happened around you," Johnny said, almost wistfully, "Tess might be able to corroborate. She saw a lot of the same shit I did…"

Whatever weird feeling _that_ brought up was eclipsed by curiosity. It would be great to finally start unwrapping the enigma surrounding Johnny Castil.

"Well then," Devi replied, "I think it's about time we started to get to the bottom of your incredibly fucked up life."

She took him by the arm—somehow managing not to flinch at the self-instigated contact—and led a bemused Johnny over to the log-carrier that was currently being unloaded by a three man team. Tess had the least muscle mass of the trio, so Devi didn't feel too bad about borrowing her for a few minutes. Then she caught the thin woman's arm with her unoccupied hand, leading them all under the shadow of a nearby house.

"So what's this all about?" Tess pushed, when they were securely hidden behind the bricks.

"How well did you know Johnny before the Change, Tess?" Devi asked, pointedly not answering her.

The black-haired woman shot a questioning look over her glasses at Johnny, who only shrugged slightly.

"I'd say pretty well," Tess frowned, "considering I only knew him for about a week."

"And while that was going on, did you…" the blue-haired woman trailed off, completely drawing a blank on how to phrase her question.

If she hadn't seen anything supernatural—which Devi was betting on—then asking about that would only discredit the entire line of inquiry. On the other hand, if she somehow _had_, then it would be leaving out a huge puzzle piece. Besides, Tess was a doubter if she'd ever seen one.

Luckily, at least she thought it was lucky, Johnny intercepted the question.

"Tell her about the day I died."

The younger woman looked uncomfortable, but she did talk. She told them about being in the basement of Johnny's house—why had she been down there?—and hearing a rumbling that grew steadily louder. She must have been in one of the lowest levels, because she spoke of climbing staircase after staircase, accompanied by an idiotic black man—where had he come from?—and chased by a horrific monster.

When she began to describe the creature, at Johnny's prompting, Devi couldn't help but wonder if they were all insane. Johnny for being Johnny, Tess for seeing monsters, and herself for actually _listening_ to this. Really, what kind of enormous, tentacled monster had Mickey Mouse built into it? Never mind that Devi may or may not have seen an impossible thing or two herself...

They had kept running, she said, and they had met… well, Devi had to really push to get that one. They had met two walking, talking, Styrofoam Pillsbury Doughboys. And, as if things couldn't get weirder…

"They argued with each other," Tess reported, pinching the spot just between her eyes as if to ward off a headache. "One of them was like 'we will be assimilated,' and the other one was like 'fuck you!'. And we were just kind of caught in the middle. The happy one told us something about Johnny… I can't remember what it was exactly. I was really freaked out. Something about being figments of Johnny's imagination. Yeah, that's what they said."

She looked at Johnny again, this time almost appraising.

"They were alive because somebody had been feeding them with… er… sentience I guess. Somebody who was trapped and needed to escape. And," She frowned, trying to remember, "They said you were a lock… or something. Something about a lock. Then the monster decapitated them."

But Tess went on, describing how she and the idiot finally made it to the ground level with the beast on their heels, only to find Johnny's body lying in a pool of his own blood. Impossibly, despite the gaping wound in his head, the man had clung to life still—she spotted writing on the floorboards scripted in Johnny's blood, managing to read most of it while her companion threatened the dying man. It was funny the things you noticed when you were to terrified to breath properly.

"It went something like this," she said, and recited, "'You can cry till there is nothing in you, you can curse until your throat ruptures, you can pray to whatever god you think might listen, but it goes on…. And you know that if it did relent, it wouldn't be because it cared.'"

Devi glanced at her mysterious companion. He stood stock still, eyes wide, and she could almost feel his desperation to remember something, _anything_, for himself.

"And the sky was completely black outside the window… that was about when the monster found us. Kirk tried to run, but the thing tore his sorry ass to shreds. They went tumbling out the window, er, door, and I looked out after them, and there was _nothing_. I mean, absolute blackness. That's when everything… dissolved."

"Dissolved." Devi repeated, incredulous.

"Yeah," Tess sighed, "it was like… when you fill a bathtub with water and then pulling the plug, and then you drop hair dye into it. The dye spins sideways. It was like that. The next thing I knew, I was lying on the doorstep and the sun was up. So I got my ass as far away from there as I could."

"And then?"

"And then life went back to normal. I was really shaken up by the whole universe-dissolving-before-my-eyes thing, and, y'know, started making some changes. Got new friends, took a new job, stopped calling Anne… got to know Tenna… that's pretty much the end of it."

The three of them said nothing for a while. Johnny, who had been rather quiet throughout the entire retelling, looked frustrated to no end. Maybe if she could just get them thinking logically…

"So… what do we all know?" Devi sat down on the thin grass, almost immediately joined by Johnny. "_You_ took a shotgun blast to the head, and yet you're here talking with us. _You_ were chased by a polymorphic monster that escaped into—through?—Johnny's house. And_ I_ saw none of this."

Tenna and Johnny exchanged another one of those looks, the ones that really pissed Devi off for some reason. Would they just spit it out already, instead of acting all ooh-we-have-a-special-secret?

"Well…" Johnny said, "I never got to see the monster myself. I know that. But I remember almost nothing of the time between receiving a massive head wound and entering Heaven, so I can't really corroborate. I do remember Tess, and something about a walking jelly bean…"

"Kirk. That was definitely Kirk," The younger woman sneered. "But I don't think we should be trying to rationalize this, since there is _nothing_ reasonable that can account for me seeing animated, gaudily painted Pillsbury Doughboys _or_ giant tentacled creatures."

Snagging on a particular detail, Devi indeed stopped her rationalizing. Painted… doughboys… now, why did that ring a bell in her head? Surely, surely she'd never come into contact with something that strange. After all, who would be weird enough to…?

"Johnny," she started, "didn't you have some creepy Styrofoam cutouts in your house?"

He looked over at her and winced, clearly remembering something that made him uncomfortable. "Yeah, I did."

"Were they involved in your insanity, by any chance?"

Another wince, but from a different memory. "Uh… yes. Mr. Fuck and Psychodoughboy. Is this really important?"

"Maybe," Devi shrugged. _For me_. "Think about it. The inanimate objects that were involved in your schizophrenic delusions—I'm right, aren't I?—were observed by an arguably sane person as acting on their own. Johnny, what were their personalities like?"

"One manic, one depressive."

"And Tess?"

"The same."

"That," the blue-haired woman continued, "implies that the… beings actually existed outside of Johnny's warped delusions. No offense."

"None taken."

"Which means that your claims to have reached the afterlife hold more water now than they did twenty minutes ago. It also means that there's some seriously fucked up phenomena in your life, which might explain a lot of things."_ A few of them more personal than I plan to share with you..._

The two of them stared at her, awaiting an explanation. Which was good, because she was really on a bit of a roll now.

"For example, why the police never responded to my reports after our little _incident_. Or how you knew about the Change before anyone else. Or a million other things that I'm not currently aware of, but you could probably list off the top of your head. It all adds up! To what, I'm not sure, but there's a common thread running through all of this. And we've been drawn into it from otherwise normal lives by association with Johnny—some of us," she glanced sideways at Tess, "More than others."

The younger woman whistled. "That's a pretty big assumption."

"It's the only logical one," Devi shrugged, standing.

Johnny glared up at her, but she could tell it wasn't anything personal. Whatever was frustrating him before was still building… probably had been for a while. She raised a brow in his direction.

"I can't shake the feeling," he ground out, "I can't stop thinking that I should already know all of this. That it's so completely obvious, and I'm just missing the forest for all the trees. But fuck if I can figure out what the forest is!"

His ex girlfriend sighed, sympathetic despite herself. "Don't beat yourself up, alright? We've only got pieces of the puzzle to work with, and there's a _lot_ of blanks to fill. But we'll work it out eventually, I'm sure of it."

And she thought they were doing pretty well for that. Besides, it would take very near God-like omnipotence for _anyone_ to understand the entire affair. Or a third person objective rendition of the story in an easy to read, simplistic format.

As if.

TBC


	14. Johnny Dreamed

_The Change_

_Summary_: the world is wicked, the world is cruel. No one knows this better than humanity's emotional sewer system, Johnny C. But floods are a thing of the past, and the world is spiraling out of control. It seems like maybe, this time, the lights have gone out for good.  
_Story:_ a crossover of Johnny the Homicidal maniac, _Dies the Fire_, Invader Zim, and misc. names and places. In which the old world ends, and a new world begins.  
_Leading characters_: Johnny C., Devi D, Todd 'Squee' Castil, and the Zim and Dib duo.  
_Warnings_: Murder, language, references to cannabalism, of course Johnny C. himself, and religious stuff.

**Author's Note:**I want to make it clear that I have no agenda. Of any kind. Ever. Just wanted to make that clear.

* * *

_19th_

"They aren't perfect," Derek sighed, "but without the skills and experience to draw on, this is as good as we'll get."

He and Pam stood in front of the eight foot wall, regarding it with critical eyes. The half logs that made its basic unit were cut so that the flat end faced inwards, robbing potential invaders of hand—or foot—holds. Mortar filled every crevasse and gap, pebbles mixed into the gray in particularly thick spots. They had stopped short of plaster, deciding that it would be a waste of valuable material and an all-around layer of concrete would do better anyways—which it did.

Five plus labor-intensive days of cutting, loading, hauling, unloading and setting up produced a thick perimeter around Johnny's house and two on either side, enclosing the houses on the streets in front and behind as well. They very nearly gave up when they realized how many trees were needed to encircle the area.

"It's not bad," Pam replied, patting the rough stone coat. "And we're still working on it."

Derek frowned. "Still? Why haven't I heard anything about this? You know, since I'm the closest thing we have to an engineer and all."

The idea of not being in the loop irritated him. It also brought up flashes of some dark thoughts about being no-longer-of-use, maybe getting turned out on his ear for lack of helpfulness. Of course, he squashed those thoughts with well-practiced ease—logically, he knew that these people would never do that. They were too nice… and they _did_ still need him, anyways.

"Relax, Derek," the woman smiled, knowing well what passed through his head at moments like these. "We'll be digging a moat of sorts, gathering up briars, you know… menial labor type stuff. There was no reason to bring you in on this."

He returned her grin. Goddess, but he was glad Devi brought her along. Derek wasn't sure how he would have coped, knowing that she was out there fending off red-teeth by herself, without him.

"Pam," he started, "Do you remember when I joined the coven?"

She laughed. "Now there's something that's hard to forget. You showed up in a kimono, wearing lipstick."

"It was _face paint_," he insisted, "and my boyfriend said it brought out my eyes."

"It brought out your _something,"_ she smirked, rotating a finger at her temple in the international gesture for _a few screws loose_.

"Ah, well, I broke up with him anyways."

"And good riddance too. Now, why you wouldn't _try_ dating my sister…"

"Somehow, she just wasn't my type…"

The two of them laughed at the running joke. Everyone knew what Derek's _type_ was.

Had it really only been five years since they met? Some days it felt like a lifetime. He often caught himself remembering her in his school years fondly, only to realize that Pam had never been there, and wonder... But, it was only to be expected: you couldn't be that close to someone and still keep them filed in one set of memories.

"I'm glad you made it into the house," he said lowly, suddenly very serious. "I don't know what I would have done if you'd stayed out there."

She smiled at him, taking his hand. "Like I'd really let you go off alone? C'mon, you know I hate that city."

He chuckled, but something about her response made his chest hurt.

-Z?-

Oddly enough, it was easier for Johnny to tolerate human contact when he was away from the house. Maybe it really was a kind of claustrophobia that made him so murderous. Emotional pressure instead of physical spaces, perhaps? And he just... needed to get away from her... and _him_.

He shouldered his pack and reentered the trudging line, quickly finding himself at the front somehow. It was strange how he always ended up leading—it could be that people tended to look for guidance in unstable characters, or that his skill and strength had garnered the trust of the troupe despite their better sense… or maybe he just walked faster than everyone else.

He turned to observe the column behind him, more or less discretely. Seven of the now thirty people in the house walked behind him, about half from the original group and half newbs. Devi had decided that having specific people thoroughly learn a task would be more efficient than everyone sort of knowing how to do everything. So here he was leading an expedition into the Humboldt forest, showing the way and generally how to get things done.

'Really hunting,' he thought, eyes closed, 'will be an interesting experience.'

Johnny's policy on killing animals had always been complicated and unsteady. On the one hand, he detested the way mankind used and abused everything they got their hands on, be it nature or other people's emotions. And animals had never really done anything to him, except that one chihuahua that had stalked him during one of his paranoid-schizophrenic episodes… but aside from that, they'd never done anything to him that deserved retribution, and were often as much victims of humanity as he was.

On the other hand, he'd done some really cruel things to a few animals during his particularly insane periods, and he _still_ couldn't find a way to justify it besides 'they're just animals'. Which made him uncomfortable, because it sounded very _human_.

The trek continued while he attempted to unravel his thoughts, and he led the group almost on automatic, passing country neighborhoods and avoiding the more densely populated areas. He'd traveled this way before, and learned from experience that big roads were to be steered clear of—the Change had affected this area too, making the populations just as dangerous as back home, if not necessarily cannibalistic.

As they passed a rather large bolder that Johnny dimly identified as a landmark, he felt a light tapping on his unoccupied shoulder. Startled, he rounded on the source with a dagger in each hand, ready to kill.

Tenna grinned back at him.

Satisfied that he was in no danger—and a bit put out that she hadn't been intimidated at all—Johnny turned back to the road and walked on, the black woman falling into place next to him.

"So… Nny…" she practically hummed. How anyone could be that completely contented all the time was infinitely beyond Johnny.

"Yess?" he answered, hissing slightly. As Devi's best friend, he supposed that she was entitled to call him that, but it brought home the fact that even his _name_ was beyond his control.

"What exactly is going on with you and Devi?" she asked lightly.

"Hm." He put away his knife. "She's leading a ragtag assortment of survivors into the post-apocalyptic-world-of-tomorrow with only her wits and what she can steal while living at my run down shack of a house and fending off roving cannibal bands, as I teach her and everyone she's saved how to fight to kill."

Blink. Blinkblink. "I meant romantically."

"Oh," Johnny replied, scowling, "well then, nothing. And it's none of your business anyways."

The woman turned suddenly serious, regarding Johnny with appraising eyes. "There are two things you don't realize. One, I'm _not_ stupid. And two, if you and Devi _did_ get into something, it has the potential to put everyone in the house at risk."

Johnny said nothing, unsure of what was happening. A somber Tenna was... just freaky.

"Oh, and I know all about your disastrous date," she added, "and while I am a naturally forgiving person, I still have to wonder about Devi's safety."

Even though he deserved it, the murderer was getting very tired of everyone assuming he had no self control. "Well you can stop, please. She doesn't..." _love me_ "...I would never hurt her" _Now_ "and she knows it." _Now. _

"Oh, and last time was just a fluke, I suppose. But! If Devi trusts you, then so do I." The smile returned full force, "So, that means you're off the hook for killing all those people, at least in my book."

_What the fuck?_ "How many of you know about that?"

Back to her bubbly self, Tenna answered, "Oh, just me and Tess. I don't know how Tess knows, but I just put two and two together. Not that the others are stupid, but Devi never told anyone else about… _you_."

They walked in silence for a bit, not thinking about anything in particular but still together. Johnny could see why Devi liked the woman, even if the eternal happiness chafed at him. The madman was a pretty unhappy man in general, although less so lately, and he'd spent so long seeking out contentment…

The Change had brought him that, in a strange way.

Johnny halted the line suddenly, realizing that he had already ventured into the forest on autopilot. Well, here is here, wherever it is. Whatever that meant. He really confused himself at times.

Show time.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," he began, turning to the students, "Today, you learn the basic staple of surviving while trapped in a needy flesh casing: food. Or, more specifically, getting a hold of food. Half of you come with me; I'm going to show you how to kill things that _aren't_ human. The other half goes with her; you're doing the vegetarian side of things."

Once the six learners split between Pam and Johnny, their teachers took off in opposite directions with necessary tools in hand.

"The first rule of hunting," Johnny began, not quite sure what he was saying, "is not to let them sense you. This means that you can't go crashing around like the pathetically civilized humans you are."

He led them to a spot between to oak trees at the top of a hill, where a thinner bit of forest lay out ahead. This was where he'd discovered his talent for hunting, a bit over a week ago. Yet another thing he knew that he really shouldn't have. He'd come out here to get away from the house and learn something useful, only to find himself up and stalking deer in the middle of the night.

"They can't smell you, either. That means you stay downwind or you take a fucking bath. Now, the best way to do this is with an arrow, but you can do it with a trap if you have the equipment and talent…"

-Z?-

Pam looked the group of tents over, listing their occupants' names in her head—she'd always been bad with those, but repetition helped. Tenna and Vatusia she knew, of course, but then there was Joseph and Caitlin and Ted and… uh, Bill… damn. The fact that they had such white-bread names was not helping her memory in the slightest.

She sat at the fire, admiring the crude shelters they had managed to get up in the clearing. She wished they could have found a ranger's cabin, but she wasn't even certain that they had any around here… so everyone settled for a cloth roof and a fire.

Pam herself was up quite late into the night, unable to sleep. Insomnia hadn't troubled her since she came to the house, but out here, away from strenuous chores and surrounded by peaceful nature, sleep became elusive once more.

A shadow joined her at the fireside, stick thin and awkwardly graceful. Johnny. She raised her head to greet him, but caught a glimpse of his face and stopped short. The look was emotionless, his eyes far, far away from here. For all that he sat beside her, she was as alone as she ever had been.

She went back to staring into the fire, trying to make out shapes in its flickering form. Her coven was one that favored Native American ideology, and she was a firm believer in signs. The same way she'd seen eagles in smoke clouds and knots of trees since she was small, there were messages worked into the universe if you just let your mind take them in. Fire was perfect for that, such a primal, seemingly random force of nature…

"Do dreams really have any meaning?"

Pam snapped up, eyes landing on Johnny who—though still far away—seemed to be speaking to her.

"Of course, they could be nothing but the idle threads of the subconscious, randomly winding together memories and wishes and fears, slick-tongued liars that twist secrets and untruths into vile riddles, labyrinths of confusion and illusion… but somehow, I've begun to wonder if there isn't something more to it than cheesy-doodle commercials and childhood trauma, something darker and more pervasive… something disturbingly _honest_…"

He looked at her for the first time, grave and stiff, sunken eyes and gaunt cheekbones gathering shadow in an almost inhuman way. Pam was… afraid. Not for her physical self, but for her soul… or something like it.

"Maybe there is," she answered quietly, carefully. "I think things are connected to other things by invisible lines, like tapestry threads. And in dreams, we sink under the conscious mind—you know, to the subconscious—and we can see the threads that connect us to everything else."

Johnny looked vacantly at her, thoughtful and still somehow cut off from the world.

"Is there something bothering you?" she ventured, hoping he wouldn't be offended. "A reoccurring dream? A confusing motif? Something about your amnesia?"

"Yes, no, maybe. I can't put it into words."

Pam sighed, turning to face him fully. There was something about Johnny that she could just sense, something lost and old. Very old. It made her curious, and oddly enough, sympathetic. Even if he had introduced himself by bodily assaulting her.

"Why don't you try?" she pushed, "Look, you're an insomniac, right? What else do you have to do tonight?"

Of course she knew the signs… she had them herself. And he was an amnesiac on top of that, what an unfortunate combination.

She just wanted him to talk to her. Whatever he had been through, she was sure she could relate, and whatever he was seeing, she'd take it as it came. After he'd offered them all so much security, the least she could do was listen.

_Johnny dreamed._

In his dream, he wandered between mountains and deserts, through primeval forests and over shorelines, sometimes alone, sometimes in company. Always, the destination called to him, leading him from one ocean to another as the seasons passed and many suns set. The pulsing in the earth grew stronger as he neared his destination, the sun shone brighter as he entered the city; all mud bricks and cattle pens. One man caught his eye, and he felt that the pulsing spread from there. Johnny bent and retrieved a stick from the dirt, noting its sharp end. He approached the man.

The world shifted, and once again Johnny made his trek across the earth, stopping for the night at the site of a town he had passed once before, only to find a lake in its stead, the inhabitants long dead and buildings many years ago crumbled to dust.

He dreamed that he lay in a hayloft in a barn that was not his own, while a family that was not his came and went below. He dreamed that he sat in a stranger's house, drinking wine that was mostly vinegar, attempting to explain that he had no name. He dreamed that he looked up at the stars and saw worlds behind them, living worlds that pulled the strings of the universe and moved the sun across the sky. He dreamed of death and killing, and of a soft longing to know other things.

He dreamed of a woman's eyes.

And throughout the visions, there was a voice that chanted, winding words that were not words between objects and people and thoughts, showing him the connection of all things and the purpose of his existence, if he cared to listen. It called him by a name that had no words, but sounded like justice and wrath and duty and hope all together in a single sound, impossibly combined.

Johnny dreamed.

ToBeContinued


	15. The Judas Admirer

_The Change_

_Summary_: the world is wicked, the world is cruel. No one knows this better than humanity's emotional sewer system, Johnny C. But floods are a thing of the past, and the world is spiraling out of control. It seems like maybe, this time, the lights have gone out for good.  
_Story:_ a crossover of Johnny the Homicidal maniac, _Dies the Fire_, Invader Zim, and misc. names and places. In which the old world ends, and a new world begins.  
_Leading characters_: Johnny C., Devi D, Todd 'Squee' Castil, and the Zim and Dib duo.  
_Warnings_: Murder, language, references to cannabalism, of course Johnny C. himself, and religious stuff.

* * *

_Dear Die-ary,_

_Pam says I walk with the mysteries. I don't know what the fuck _that_ means, but I do know a thing or two about mystery. Or rather, I _don't_ know a thing or two. It sounds like a religious commercial._

_She doesn't know what's going on either. Damn. She does say that I feel old to her, even though I'm probably twenty-something. Weird. Never thought about how old I am before. Never seemed… relevant. Everyone else is so concerned with it, but why does it matter anyway? You're dead or you're alive, and who cares how long you've been in either state? Doesn't fucking matter._

_Still, it's a new angle._

_April 21st, 1998_

--

Tenna froze when she heard the snap. It was just a twig, innocent in its dry twigginess, and nothing worth freezing for in itself; it was the direction that it came from which gave her pause. Out of the corner of her eye, she searched for the source of the sound, scanning the trees on her left for any movement, any strange coloration.

There. A sliver of purple at the edge of one trunk, about five feet from the clearing edge. Her instant assessment: ambush, and a cautious one at that. Slowly, she rose from the ground, leaving her basket of roots behind, and approached the thicket where she knew the rest of her party was working.

Around the trunk of one tall tree, the other six came into view. Pam looked over at her, questioning, and Tenna widened her eyes meaningfully. The black woman held up two fingers, then made a cross followed by a gun shape. _At least two. Waiting in ambush._

"Okay guys," Pam said, using the same tone that elementary school teachers employ to direct a class, "we're going to move back towards the hunting group now, so we can get some of Nny's tools. Gather up quickly."

Tension rippled through the squad—'Nny's Tools' was the code for weapons, which could only mean one thing. Everyone grabbed their baskets and trotted off in the direction of the campsite, where Johnny was lecturing his hunters about something dubiously important. When Pam's people burst into their loose circle, she tightened her lips and simply said, "We came to borrow some of your tools."

Tenna noticed how she didn't emphasize 'tools' the way most people would—people who had watched spy movies and probably would have winked as well. She also noticed the razor toothed grin creeping onto Johnny's face.

The dozen plus casually picked up their weapons, some chatting quietly—complete silence would have seemed suspicious—and assembled in something of a formation, a loose semicircle around the most valuable objects in camp: the gear and ponies. The moment of calm was so long that Tenna began to wonder if she'd imagined the strangers in the forest, and her ears strained for that tell-tale ruffle of leaves on the left that would answer that question once and for all.

And there it was. From the greenery sprang tattered figures, barreling down the small space between the two groups and emitting ear-grating shrieks. They all held crude weapons in their scratched hands, and Tenna spotted at least one shovel in the mix. Her troupe jumped into action, whipping out knives and one or two spears, rushing headlong into the fray. The whole House had a tendency to go a little crazy in a fight, which Tenna suspected they'd picked up from their teacher.

Her own knife was more of a dagger, and she brought it down into one of the bandits at the weak point above the center of the collarbone, managing to spray blood all along her arm. Ripped it out, side-swiped into the man's left wrist and she kicked him over. Someone bumped up against her back and she half turned, relaxing when she met the grey-blue eyes of her teammate, whose name she admittedly couldn't remember. He gave her a bight smile and waved a bloodstained hand, and she decided that she liked him a lot.

Another came at her, a woman wearing the tattered remains of scrubs and carrying a baseball bat with a kitchen knife tied to it. The next few minutes faded into a blur of red mist and sharp edges sinking into soft flesh. At some point, she caught sight of Johnny decapitating one of the bandits, and after that she was conscious of unfocusing her eyes to block out the peripheral violence. At length, she yanked her dagger up and out of the stomach of one, and whirled, only to find the battlefield still and silent, all the intruders now dead.

Pam on her right quirked an eyebrow in her direction.

This melee was nothing new, of course, and they'd fought better armed groups before. Superior training trumped numbers 80 percent of the time anyways, and their ambushers were, almost without fail, clueless and badly armed. Once upon two months ago, they had been bankers and house wives and drug dealers, and now they were desperately playing at highwaymen. Tenna ran a critical eye over the two dozen bodies, a bit surprised at their number and impressed with their relative cleanliness. Someone was organizing these people.

The black woman looked up and grinned sheepishly, pulling out of her battle stance and dropping the knife. A bit self consciously, she wiped a gratuitous splatter of blood off her face. "I think I know how the berserkers felt," she giggled.

That boy with the blue-gray eyes grinned at her.

--

Tess carried a bucket of water in each hand, both about a gallon each. The first time she drew water duty, she thought her arms were going to fall off and then spontaneously combust. By now she'd discovered that they didn't fall off, they just hurt like someone stuck hooks in every muscle for about a day afterwards; eventually she'd either get used to it or take matters into her own hands and rig up a water carrying device. Actually, she already had an idea for that.

The four ponies were still with them, pulling the plow or carrying the children around, although they were too small for the average adult to ride. They could send children out with buckets on horseback, and the horses wouldn't bat an eye. Well, that temperamental little vanilla might, but it had an attitude problem to begin with.

Devi put her in charge of the ponies a while back, when she'd mentioned that she spent collectively six years around horses while in school. Her father was in the army, so they moved around a lot, but her mother was a rodeo rider once, so they always ended up wherever the horses were, and it gave her a lot of time to practice. When she was seventeen, her parents had put her in charge of the breeding program at the farm-of-the-year, and boy, that had been a little disturbing. Still, she was thinking about getting a bit of a herd going with the ponies; animal labor was about the only way things were going to get done these days, and better horses than people.

The sky was blue, fading to pink in the west, and Tess dropped her buckets at the doorstep, craning her neck to see the entire expanse. The smoke screen was thinner every day—which probably meant that the city was running out of things to burn—and she'd forgotten somewhere during the last few years how exquisite the sky was. The gothic scene refused to admire beauty in anything besides people and clothes, so she'd done the same thing…

A young woman ran up to Tess, skidding to a stop a few feet away and saluting. A trifle annoyingly, as it was hard to tell if she was kidding with that salute. What was her name? A-something…

"Aviva," yes, that was it, "what's the problem?"

The teenager looked at her, all nervous shuffling and twitching eyes, and said, "We have… um… refugees. From the city."

Tess's brows shot up at that. After a month of Negro's rule, there was basically nobody left in town that wasn't on his side, and… well, she supposed it was too much to ask for that Cortez wouldn't notice a wall had gone up at the edge of his territory. But why refugees _now_? Reports said that anyone who wandered into the city these days went into the stewpot faster than you could say "Red-Teeth".

Tess made a lead-the-way gesture, and Aviva set off in the direction of what was once—apparently—Squee's house.

"They say they've had a falling out with Negro's people," the girl said, leading them around the corner and face to face with a scruffy looking crew. A couple women, a few men, a handful of children; as it turned out, parents had been more likely to turn cannibal than anyone else. They all looked expectant, and most already had set down their suitcases. Tess gave the woman on her left a sharp look. She looked like a leader, of sorts, and if anyone was going to explain themselves it would be her.

"I'm Trisha Williams," the older woman said, by way of introduction. She looked to be nigh on forty, with blond hair that was showing dark brown at the roots and bright blue eyes dulled by hunger and exhaustion. "I… we… we would be forever grateful if you would take us in."

Tess raised a brow. "Why _you_ and not the other hundred starving wanderers? We've had plenty of people pass through, and we turn most of them away. Food is tight enough as it is, and we're crowded too." _Not to mention you are—excuse me, _were_—Red-Teeth, probably only yesterday. _

Trisha shiftily eyed the armed party in front of her. It looked like she was doing some fast thinking, and her small congregation was suddenly looking a lot less entitled. One of the men picked up his son and shushed him.

"I can make weapons," the older woman answered finally. "Nothing fancy, but I've got practiced hands and tools too. Your people are well armed, but that won't last forever. Steel breaks, and dulls, and it gets lost."

A convincing argument, if it was true. No one in the house had any idea how to work metal, including Johnny, and it was only a matter of time until they would need more knives and arrow heads and so on. And, contrary to a lot of people's beliefs, kitchen knives wouldn't cut it in the long run—most wouldn't hold an edge at all, and knife fights were unnecessarily dangerous, particularly against decently armed opponents. Johnny had been talking about swords lately...

"Okay," Tess agreed, nodding to Kevin. The young man escorted the crew away, no doubt delighting in a chance to intimidate the newbies. "You'll have to prove that you can actually _do_ that, though," Tess went on. "How did you learn it anyways?"

"Ah…" Trisha looked like she was thinking of lying, but took a look at Tess's remaining guards and thought better of it. "My son and I learned together. We took a couple workshops and experimented in the basement. We made a few lovely pieces, but I was always more concerned with form… and Jimmy couldn't bring himself to care about anything beyond function. We made a good team, though…"

The second in command took her guest by the arm and started for the house. "Did he make it through the Change?"

Trisha took a minute to decode 'Change', and then replied, "Oh, no. He died a bit less than a year ago… or rather, he disappeared. We never found his body, but a mother knows these things. I was sitting on the living room couch with a cup of tea in my hand, when I felt this… sense of _doom_ wash over me, and I just knew it was Jimmy. He had become so strange in the last few months… He wouldn't let me look at any of his projects, and he was always wearing these _odd_ clothes. He started calling himself…"

She trailed off, looking over at Tess, whose expression was mostly neutral.

"Oh, forgive me, I'm rambling. It's just that I miss him so much… even now, with all of this happening. I suppose I shouldn't have been so surprised, in retrospect—after all, our city was never a safe place to live, even before… what did you call it? 'The Change'? Yes, well, I don't think I knew a single person who hadn't had _someone_ mysteriously kidnapped or killed. I should have warned him, I should have talked to his father about moving, I…"

They reached the house, and Trisha stopped once again cut herself off. Tess held the door open for her, and they walked through the upper level silently. You didn't just traipse through Johnny's floor like you would the lower levels—especially if he was in one of his manic/depressive moods. Thus, a modicum of silence had to be observed.

"But the metal working?" the younger woman prompted, leading her companion down the stairs.

"If you can get me a variety of metals, and some sort of furnace, I can show you," Trisha answered. "I can work copper and tin alloy, and I know a thing or two about steel. Silver and gold as well, but those are terrible for weapon materials."

Tess nodded. Once on the level ground of the second level, she pulled a candle out of its holder and beckoned her companion down one particularly twisting hallway. A lot of the new arrivals liked to remark that it was like a Transylvanian castle on the lower levels, all stone and turning passage ways… she couldn't imagine _what_ they were going to do when the candles ran out…

"Let me give you a run down," Tess began, knowing that the sound of someone's voice took the sting out of these creepy halls. "I'm Tess, and I'm second in command. If there's a domestic problem, you should try to find me first. Devi is our Talles—ah, she's in charge. Big problems go to her. Nny—that's N-N-Y, in case you're wondering—is our mojo man. Kind of a general slash troop trainer slash figure of mystery. And when you do meet him, be polite… well, I guess polite is your basis of operation…"

The older woman was starting to look a bit dazed, but nodded.

"Anyways, we're really informal around here; I don't know what Cortez had set up in town, but Devi insists on an egalitarian no-class system. Meaning, she's in charge, I'm in charge, Johnny's in charge, and everybody else deals with it. Originally, we had everybody living here in the lower levels—Johnny says that there's at least ten of them, but we only use four or so. In the last few weeks, we've been moving people into the other houses inside the wall, so if you prefer easy access to the sunlight, you should let me know before I set you up."

Trisha eyed the corridor and the candle. "It's safer down here, isn't it?"

"Yeah," the younger woman replied, "we can block off the ground level entrances in case of invasion so no one knows it's here. But really, most people only come down after sunset so they can sleep. We're planning to build some one-family houses against the inner edges of the wall, but that's still in the blue-print stages. Ah, here we are."

Tess gestured at the door on their immediate left so Trisha opened it. Inside there was only one person, a green boy of something close to 5'4, with bright pink eyes and no hair. He blinked owlishly at them.

"Trisha, this is Zim," Tess introduced, smirking on the inside. Poor woman looked like she was about to faint. "Zim, Trisha. This kid has access to technology no one else does. That, paired with your fortuitous knowledge of blacksmithing, is going to be our trump card. I want you two to get to know each other, since you'll be working together for a long, long time. If you're lucky."

"Has Zim no say in this matter, Female-stink?"

"Nope," said female-stink replied. "Get acquainted quickly too. You'll be meeting Johnny this evening Trisha, and he'll have a few questions to ask you…"

--

_Dear Die-ary,_

_I think I used to be somebody else._

_April 31, 1998_

_--_

"So…" Johnny began, tone of only the most deadly sweetness, "you want to join our little club, hmm?"

The stunned woman clutched at her chair, eyes wider than eyes should be able to go. It would have been funny if they just popped out while she was shaking in her oh-so immaculate blouse. Ah, these were the little things that made life enjoyable.

"But you used to live in the city!" he exclaimed, managing to look innocently confused while holding a well-worn and bloodstained knife. "What does a Redteeth want with us, I wonder? After all Negro did for you, catching you food, fight off starving hordes… cooking up your husband?"

Impossibly, the woman's eyes went even wider. Her mouth gaped open too.

"I thought so," the madman went on, "But why would you turn on him after all that? And, if you turned on him, who's to say you won't do the same to us…?"

"A—I…." the woman stuttered, white as snow from her hair to her red-painted nails.

"After all, it's only logical," Johnny sang out, idly testing the knife's blade on his finger. "And I wouldn't want to let some sort of bleach-blond, backstabbing _Judas_ into my house, now, would I?"

He let the question hang, perhaps rhetorical, perhaps not. He knew she'd sweat it out over that—answer a rhetorical question, and he might really get mad, don't answer and… he might really get mad. Johnny smothered a giggle.

"What do you have to say for yourself?" he asked, smiling dangerously.

"I… I'm not here to… I wouldn't betray you!" she insisted, looking like every word was being squeezed out of an ever tightening esophagus. "Negro didn't send me!"

"Tsk. I never said he did. Have you ever heard of a Freudian Slip?" by the look on her face, she had. "Rather damning evidence. And, as you can see, you're not going to get any prisoner's rights or 'trial by your peers' around here…" his voice lost all remnants of its sickly sweet quality, turning low and cold, "So give me one good reason why I shouldn't slice your throat open and use your over-starched white hair to mop up the blood."

Gulp. "Because I have skills, and you need them. Maybe not right this minute, but you _will_ need them."

Johnny's eyes flickered to the doorway where Devi was standing, hidden by shadows. She nodded slightly, and he turned his attention back on the renegade leader. "You're right, we _do_ need you. And even if you _are_ a traitor, we can keep you locked up and watched twenty-four seven, and we can beat you till you work so hard your hands bleed… if necessary. But I don't think you want to live like that, am I right?"

She shook her head, mute.

"Then we need a way to know for sure if you're on our side. We need…" Johnny paused, turning on his heel, "…leverage."

Trisha seemed to shake off her terror for a moment, muttering hotly, "I have nothing you can take away from me."

The murderer squinted at her. "Then perhaps we can offer you something instead. What did Negro promise you?"

"I'm not working for him!" she cried, clenching the sides of the chair in her well manicured hands. "And you can't offer me anything I want."

"Don't lie to me," the madman hissed, dropping to his knees. Eye to eye, the woman was almost frail, and reeked of grief and regret. Johnny had a flash of another face within her face, young and greasy, acne ridden and male but with the same sharp nose and rectangular build. It laughed at him, unafraid until the very last minute, and then this same look of desperate horror…

Johnny grabbed her chin, shuddering inwardly at the contact, and willed her to look at him. "You had a son, didn't you?" he asked, grip tightening involuntarily. "You _did,_ didn't you?"

"Yes," she choked out, looking pained.

"Negro promised he'd give you back your son, yess? Told you that he'd been abducted months ago and he'd been keeping him, waiting for the reward money to go up? _Didn't he_?"

Another yes.

Johnny's eyes went dark, and he could feel something shifting inside of him. "Oh _señora,_" he whispered, "You have been cruelly tricked. Negro never had your son at all, the _cabrón_. He is dead, long dead, and you know that."

"No!" she shouted, eyes clenched shut. "He isn't! Negro told me… he told me… No!"

"His name was Jimmy," the madman went on, ignoring her sobs. "And he looked like me. He loved you, but he hated everything else, and in the end, the hate was too strong. Tell me, _señora, _do you know what is the greatest crime of all against the Gods?"

"M-murder?"

"No," he laughed, swinging to his feet, "that is the greatest crime against _man_. No, above all things, _Diosa_ despises _violación_… rape. And your son…"

He allowed that to hang in the air, as loath understanding dawned on his prisoner. Good. The memory of that boy turned his vision red, and even the months hadn't dulled the ripping anger of their fatal encounter.

"I think you know. He came to me, once—and only once—and he told me what he had done, and I killed him. I gave him chances but, of course, the guilty are always drawn to their retribution… and I took special pains that the punishment fit the crime. So, if you want your son back… I can give you his bones, and no more."

The frail woman looked up with utter horror in her eyes, and oddly, Johnny felt none of the satisfaction he usually gained when terrifying people. Actually, he felt… sorry for her.

"_Señora,"_ he sighed, kneeling once again, "You may have the bones if you wish them. The sin of the child is not always the fault of the mother, this is true. Stay with us, yes? We are strong and just and you will have new life here. You can atone for whatever you have done or have not done. Think on it."

He stood quietly and made his way to the shadowed doorway, glancing back once to see her collapse in silent tears. The hardest things to learn are the ones you already know, deep down. Johnny stopped shoulder to shoulder with Devi, unwilling to look her in the eye.

The blue-haired woman said quietly, "You killed her son?"

"Yes," he murmured, "I did give him a chance to leave, but I think now that I should not have, even if he didn't take it."

"I don't know how to say this," Devi went on, eyeing the hunched form of her 'guest' even as she spoke, "but you're… different. The accent, for starters."

The murderer sighed, pushing the door open. "Some things refuse to stay buried," he replied cryptically. "I will be the same as always very soon. Do not worry, _querida_."

And then he slid into the corridor and was gone.

TBC


	16. A Whole New Kind of Crazy

_The Change_

_Summary_: the world is wicked, the world is cruel. No one knows this better than humanity's emotional sewer system, Johnny C. But floods are a thing of the past, and the world is spiraling out of control. It seems like maybe, this time, the lights have gone out for good.  
_Story:_ a crossover of Johnny the Homicidal maniac, _Dies the Fire_, Invader Zim, and misc. names and places. In which the old world ends, and a new world begins.  
_Leading characters_: Johnny C., Devi D, Todd 'Squee' Castil, and the Zim and Dib duo.  
_Warnings_: Murder, language, references to cannabalism, of course Johnny C. himself, and religious stuff.

AN: dudes, guess what? I made myself a little art piece inspired by this story! So if anyone wants to see what I've got the characters looking like (next chapter, it'll be helpful) the adress is http:// desdemonakakalose. / art/ The-Troupe-132992626 (minus all those spaces).

* * *

_2nd_

Squee Casil slipped out of the bedroom he shared with his mother, guided by the moonlight leaking under the doorframe, which was not enough to prevent him from tripping over a toy on the floor and falling onto his back for a few painfully seconds. Still, he righted himself and peered out into the hallway, this time searching for anything _else_ on thefloor illuminated in the silver-blue moonlight. Spying nothing, he crept out.

The House was creepy even in the daylight, but under the liquid luminance of night, it took on a positively ethereal aura, like a ghost world, or the realm of those bad fairies he read about. The scary ones who stole babies and led people away and never let them come back, and cursed people for fun and made people go _crazy_. _Squeee_…

He tip-toed into the living room, knowing it would be empty and lit brightly by the moon out the windows. Squee loved the moon, even if he hated the night-time; it was light and comfort, and really pretty too. He always came to look at the moon when he couldn't sleep.

"_Who's there_?" a hoarse voice demanded, startling the boy so badly he actually fell over. A head popped over the back of the sofa, and Squee relaxed slightly. It was just Nny, being creepy and Nny-ish.

He propped himself up and waved a little at the maniac. "It's me, T—Squee," he whispered.

"Oh," Johnny replied, not looking as happy as he usually would when greeted by a terrified Todd. "What're you doing up this late, Squeegee?"

It was not a good idea to lie to Nny, as you could never know when he'd call you out on it. A couple people had been on the receiving end of those miniature inquisitions, and while nobody _died_, or was even really _injured_, it was scary enough that no one had wanted to try it again.

"I couldn't sleep," the ten year-old mumbled, pulling himself into a proper sitting position. "I was thinking about all the people in Los Angeles, and Mexico, and San Antion—Antoni—Texas. They're all in the desert, y'know? And now the water doesn't work, and there's no ocean, and…. It must be terrible."

Johnny looked down at him with a neutral expression. "Most of them were probably assholes anyways."

Well that didn't help! Nny _always_ said that. Todd looked up at him with pained eyes and asked, "But what if they _weren't_?"

The maniac's eyes were dark and considering tonight, and it seemed as if he was really giving the question thought instead of trotting out his usual dogma about humanity and the lack of usefulness thereof. He ran a hand through his black hair, died almost blue in the moonlight; Squee preferred his hair grown out in its current long-in-front-short-in-back style, as opposed to the bald-except-two-horn-like-bangs look he'd sported for a few months. This one Squee was accustomed to, and it didn't look nearly as scary.

"If they weren't… I guess they died anyways," Johnny answered meditatively, propping up his chin with one fist. "That's probably not what you wanted to hear, but it's how it is. You can't do anything about it, and everyone dies someday. People have lost touch with that in the last century, but it's true: nobody lives forever."

Frowning, Squee considered that. Compared to Nny's usual responses, that was the essence of empathy. And also very… sane. Typically, even Johnny's smart moments were tinged with fanaticism or murder or something, and he was never _just_… thoughtful.

"Why are _you_ up?" the boy asked, kind of surprising himself.

Nny scowled, but not at Todd in particular. "I had a dream," he answered, glaring out the window. "And now I can't stop thinking."

"Are you scared?" Squee asked, remembering all the long nights he'd had to sit in the corner where he could see the whole room, because he dreamed about ghosts or bed bugs or giant amorphous monsters.

"Scared?" Johnny started to laugh, but it faded out quickly. "I think I'm angry. And frustrated. And I want to kill something, but it's _me_ who's pissing me off."

Why did he have to leave Shmee in his room? Squee could have really used the teddy bear for back up right now.

"I'm used to hearing voices," Johnny went on, gesturing futilely with his unoccupied hand, "It's just that I haven't heard them since the lights went out, and now I feel like I have two people living inside me! There's me, and then there's this infuriating dark spot in the back of my head, and I know it's me too, but it's not _me_."

"What's it like?" Squee asked curiously. He'd never talked to anyone with multiple personality disorder, and it sounded fascinating. He could write some great stuff, probably, with that as his baseline.

"It's like…" the older man struggled for words, which Squee knew was unusual. "It's like there's this feeling in the back of your mind whenever you try to sleep or think or dream, telling you that you've forgotten something and if you try hard enough you can remember. Only, it doesn't _want_ you to remember. It's blue, dark blue, and when I try to focus on it, it feels furious and depressed. And lost. I think it wants out, but it's scared of what it'll find."

"Was it always there?" Squee blinked up at him. The man he'd once thought of as Scary Neighbor Man didn't seem particularly scary tonight, lit all white and black and blue by the moonlight drifting down through his empty windows. He looked sad.

"I don't know. I was too crazy to notice little things like a walled up spot in my head. And I was fighting with the Doughboys, and the Reverend, and the Wall… I can't even remember when all of this started. I'm fucking crazy," Johnny snarled, shocking Squee a bit, "I can't even remember how I got this house! I can't remember when I killed nailbunny, I can't remember when I first met Devi, I can't remember who that man was that I had strapped into the ripping machine. _Why do I keep thinking of him_? I'm so fucking confused and angsty and it's KILLING ME."

Todd sat quietly, less scared than he probably should have been, while his companion tried to breathe deeply and sank nails into the fabric of the couch.

"What did you dream about?" he finally asked, figuring that Nny had calmed down sufficiently.

"A woman," Johnny answered, his face softening. "The most amazing woman I've ever seen. We were married, and we had a son… and I was so _happy_… I've never been that happy, Squeegee, not like that. When I kill people, it's more like a desperate sort of elation. That was so… unpolluted."

Squee waited for him to go on. Was it selfish to think that Johnny's troubles might make a really awesome book? Because they totally would.

"And then she died. Everything went up in flames, our home, our village, our _life_. This is why I try not to sleep, all these fucking dreams. And I wake up, and I can't believe it wasn't real. I…"

Outside and high above, a cloud drifted over the moon and cast the room in shadow. Squee shivered.

"The worst part is that I think I could be happy, now. But these goddamn dreams and the stupid, extraneous knowledge won't let me! Just when I thought I was getting better, I develop a whole new kind of crazy."

Johnny sighed and looked down at his little friend. The boy looked up and sighed as well. They both needed sleep, especially since they had water duty tomorrow.

"Well," Squee said, "if it wants to be free… you'll just have to let it out. Don't stay up too late, Nny."

And the ten year old picked himself up and wandered off to bed.

--

The sun was shining, the birds were singing, somewhere behind them Squee was reciting Edgar Allen Poe, and Johnny was ranting.

"—I just don't understand why they dye the butter yellow!" he insisted, waving one of his signature knives in the air. "It's just not logical! Natural butter is white. WHITE. Who decided—"

Somewhere in the back of his head, he caught Devi sigh. She had drawn water duty too, and they had ended up paired off as they so often seemed to be. A weird coincidence, if you believe in those. Which his paranoia wouldn't let him.

"—But I guess _Billy_ would know all about that, wouldn't he?" Johnny found himself saying. Sometimes—okay, most of the time—he talked without really comprehending the words that came out of his mouth, and they ended up being just as much a surprise to him as everyone else. Of course, they were only the same things he was already thinking, which probably explained why they were so rambling.

"Billy?" Devi cut in, brow raised—not that he could see, she was actually a step or so ahead of him, but he could hear the familiar tone and knew the expression that went along with it.

"Well yes, since he's _so_ useful." Johnny fought to keep the bitterness out of that statement, and probably failed. "Or I guess there could be _other_ reasons you spend so much time with him."

The woman stopped walking, and the inertia sent her pail crashing into his. "What do you mean, 'so much time'?"

"Don't give me that shit," he scowled, avoiding the flying water droplets, "I saw you talking to him yesterday in the hall! If you like him so much you should just… just… copulate and be done with it!"

"What the Hell, Johnny?" Devi demanded, turning quickly so that she stood face to face with him. In his peripheral vision, he caught Squee and Derek shuffle around them, trying to keep their noses out of the whole business. Johnny wasn't sure whether that gratified him or pissed him off.

"You two are so _cozy_, it makes me sick!" the madman practically spat. Woops, there went his carefully hoarded self-control. "Why don't you keep your vile _pre-mating_ rituals behind closed doors where they _belong_?"

"I am not _cozy_!" Devi shrieked, dropping her bucket. "And even if I was, it's none of your business!"

"It is while you're in _my_ house, under _my_ roof, where I have to _see_ you!"

"That's ridiculous! You haven't said a word about Tenna or Scot!"

"Who the fuck is Scot? I don't care about Scot!"

"What, so you only care about me?"

"_Yes_, fuck it all!"

_Wait_. Johnny's eyes went wide and so did Devi's, and they just stared at each other for a very long moment. Somewhere in the rational side of his brain, he felt his face burning and his hand twitching for the cold comfort of a knife. Why, God you fucking wastoid deity, _why_ did she have to say it like that? Johnny released a desperate breath.

"I… I'm sorry," he choked out, reminding himself not to cry. There's nothing wrong with crying, but it's something you have to do in private. "You didn't need to hear that."

The look Devi gave him nearly broke his heart. It was so… neutral. Anger, he could have taken—might have welcomed it—but there was no dealing with… that. She fixed her grip on both her buckets and started walking again, deliberately ignoring him for most of the walk back.

"I don't understand you!" she finally burst out, "I thought you were supposed to be all _emotionless_ now."

Johnny snorted in spite of himself. "Devi, do I really look emotionless to you?"

The woman made a little 'huh' sound in the back of her throat, still refusing to look at him. "After that goddamn recording, I figured you'd have managed it. I mean, it's been what, a year now? And you sounded pretty fucking sincere with that 'eradicate all emotion' bit."

_Hah_, Johnny though somewhere in the recesses of his mind, _I knew I sounded sincere._

Aloud, he replied, "Well, fuck knows I _tried_ to do it. I spent months on the road, eating only when I was good and ready and trying not to ki—ah, disturb anyone. Months, Devi! Even the voices couldn't find me. You wouldn't believe all the shit I tried, all the places I went… did you know that our city is the only one in California that sells Frosty-Ham flavor brainfreezies? It must be some sort of local company."

Devi looked over at that. "I always wondered what they were thinking with those. I mean, cherry's a perfectly normal flavor, and I can even see peanut… maybe… but frosty-ham? What the hell?"

"Mhm," he agreed, "But I never really questioned it until I went on my little trip. Did you know that meditation actually _works_? I never would have believed it, but towards the end I got so desperate I actually gave it a chance. Got a vague feeling for what really makes up a human being. You know how I used to say that there were two kinds of humans: the real ones and the fake ones?"

A bird flew overhead and cast a fleeting show over her face as she nodded.

"I was kind of off with that. See there's all kinds of shit inside people, swirling around like a emotional septic tank, and most people have the same stuff in there to begin with. But when you go through things the mix starts to get more complicated, happiness adds bottles of those blue chemicals and trauma adds more shit. By the time you grow up, you're pretty much sorted out, and… where was I going with this?"

"Hell if I know," Devi shrugged. "Something about you not being emotionless, I assume."

Johnny racked his brain for a moment. "Oh! So anyways, I had to come back home after I realized something: you can't have a person without emotions and needs. If you take away the needs, you're a robot. If you take away the emotion, you loose the sentience. And if you take away the wants, what's the point of living? I used to idolize Mr. Samsa for being emotionless and indestructible—I used to say, 'if only people were more like roaches'—but in the end, that's just the problem. There's a reason why people are people and roaches are roaches. Do you see what I mean?"

The trees ahead thinned out and faded into grass. The neighborhood started here, a few of its houses burned out or already looking ready to crumble. It had been a poor, out-skirts-of-town place to begin with.

"Yeah," the blue-haired woman replied, "that makes sense to me. In fact, it's kind of what I already thought. You had to go on a long-ass road trip to figure that out?"

Johnny scowled. "Sometimes, Devi, if I didn't…" _love you_ "…I think I'd…" _kill you_.

He was relived to see the slightly confused look on her face. That wasn't the sort of thing you told a woman, especially a woman like Devi from a man like himself. Doubtlessly it'd sound like a threat, and that wasn't what he wanted; also, it'd be a confession more obvious than the one from earlier.

"I didn't want to believe it," he said, by way of explanation. "It put a real knife in my Vulcan-esque ambitions."

She snorted. "You and logic, I swear… It's amazing how a person who has none can be so fond of it."

They descended into a whirl of banter, and Johnny could feel something… something outside of himself, but not physical… he could feel it healing, one stitch at a time. He smiled.

Yes, life was good. It didn't matter that Devi wasn't his, or that Billy was waiting at the house, or that there were cannibal mobs roaming the city outside the walls; it didn't even matter that he was having impossible dreams _every single night_, when he didn't even used to _sleep_ more than one out of five days. All that mattered was that right now, right at that moment, it was just him and Devi…

And he was happy.

--

Somewhere outside the walls of the House, at the heart of the city proper, evil was brewing. And it was just the sort of day for evil, Armando Cortez thought to himself, pleased.

The sun was obscured by smoke, and the streets were running red with blood—literally in a couple cases. He'd grinned when he saw those. Very impressive. A shame that he'd have to rein that sort of thing in soon, but there's only so much chaos a ruling party can take before it loses control, and he couldn't afford that. Oh no, that would not be according to plan. Not that the plan was particularly complicated, but what was there was meant to be followed.

Simply put, it was this: Take over, be king, rule until death. Possibly with a _produce heir_ thrown in, although he wasn't particularly fond of the idea of a queen. As if his bitches weren't bad enough when they were just for keeping up appearances in the gang, imagine the headaches that a consort—or even a concubine—would give him. And he didn't get this far by thinking with his dick. _Puta_ just weren't worth the effort.

Cortez flicked a hand at a servant who scampered off. He needed to be alone right now, and even the silent presence of his aid was too distracting for this kind of delicacy. How far could he extend his reach? How much could he afford to take while the world was still reeling from the End? Did he really need more land, or just more food?

Despite what his—late—opposition had thought, Negro was fully aware of the fate that awaited full cannibals, namely disease and ultimately starvation as resources were depleted. He was smart, and he had—though he'd deny it violently—watched educational TV when there was still TV to watch. _Tierra_ was the source of all life; even the chickens and cows were fed from her. Man-eating was only a temporary solution, and one day soon they would return to the lives of their ancestors to work the land. Well, _he_ wouldn't, but most everyone else would.

There was another option he'd been entertaining lately, a bit far-fetched, but deliciously evil. His people were accustomed to men's flesh by now, and in a way it was what held them together more than even his leadership. Suppose he carried it into the future? There was no reason he couldn't keep a selection of healthy humans the same way that people had, say, cows. A herd. But, that was speculation and could wait until things had calmed down.

Right now, his immediate concern was the little corner of his city that had, almost overnight, transformed into a fort of resistance. Lenin swore that there had been no one there during his survey mission, and that bitch Trisha hadn't reported back like he'd told her to, so he was left with nothing, really, to go on. That wasn't honestly surprising, as he'd never fully trusted Lenin (too many ulterior motives) and he'd sure as _hell_ never trusted Williams, and thusly he was prepared with a sort of back-up plan.

Like all of Negro's plans, it was simple. Kill the rebels. Possibly eat them. There was time yet to flesh the plan out, and all he needed was a little information… then he could do as he pleased. Killing, conversion…

He smiled at the thought.

Everyone is shaped by their history, some reaching back so far that the end result feels random, unfounded without the ancient ground to stand on. How was Cortez to know that his crimes were perfectly suited to his past, when his Madre had been a teen mother and his father had been a night janitor? How was he to tell that fate was taking him in an almost whimsical circle? He couldn't have known that killing and conversion ran in his veins.

He still smiled though, calling his aid inside, and felt it bubble up from long hidden reservoirs of ancestral memory.

TBC


	17. Born by Pain

_The Change_

_Summary_: the world is wicked, the world is cruel. No one knows this better than humanity's emotional sewer system, Johnny C. But floods are a thing of the past, and the world is spiraling out of control. It seems like maybe, this time, the lights have gone out for good.  
_Story:_ a crossover of Johnny the Homicidal maniac, _Dies the Fire_, Invader Zim, and misc. names and places. In which the old world ends, and a new world begins.  
_Leading characters_: Johnny C., Devi D, Todd 'Squee' Castil, and the Zim and Dib duo.  
_Warnings_: Murder, language, references to cannabalism, of course Johnny C. himself, and religious stuff.

AN: Woops. I forgot that this chapter was coming up. Introspective post ahead, and some of you who've already been suspicious may figure out what's going on here. Fingers crossed, ladies and gents.

* * *

4th

When Tyler had lived in her own house, before the Change, her mom had said she was a brat. She'd said it when Tyler punched Tommy Lee, and when she stole that rocking horse from the Toys-R-Us, and when she wouldn't eat her vegetables. Tyler knew it her mom wasn't trying to be mean, but it hurt her feelings.

Of course, not as much as she'd hurt Tommy Lee's not-feelings.

Mom said she was being a brat about this too. The girl eyed her plate with contempt, deciding that beef jerky and a handful of blackberries (the first of the year) were _not_ her idea of a proper lunch. First of all, there was no peanut butter. Second of all, there was no jelly. And what kind of lunch didn't have a juice box? These were _constants._ What was she, a bear? She couldn't live like this for another day!

"I'm so sick of the food around here," she muttered, ripping violently into a stick of jerky.

"Whasamatter?" Delano asked, as coherently as she could around a mouthful of dried meat. She actually _liked_ all the meat and sawdust and grass around here. Gone over to the dark side she had.

"It's twigs and berries! Why can't we have cheeseburgers or hotdogs? Or peanut butter 'n jelly? Where's the _food_?"

Delano rolled her eyes dramatically. "There _is_ no food. Like, it doesn't exist."

That's what her mom had said too. But that was impossible! There was _always_ food, somewhere. It came in packages at the store and in the refrigerator, and they… where did the food come from, anyways? Trucks? Well, there were farms, right? Why didn't they go find a farm or a truck?

"Anyways," Delano went on, sounding important, "anything is better than a jar of poppy seeds. I lived off those for _days._ You don't get it because you've been here—" she gestured vaguely towards the nearest Wall, "—for the whole time. You should see the city! It's like _Dawn of the Living Dead_ out there_. _You should be happy you aren't eating people."

"Yeah?" Tyler groused, "Well I bet it tastes better than beef jerky."

"It's full of parasites," an adult voice informed her. Edward, probably. She turned around to see a dark man with a plate cradled in his elbow as if it might make a suicide jump any moment. Yeah, Edward.

"I don't listen to _nerds_," Tyler shot back, annoyed. She ate nerds for breakfast—well, not Dib 'cause he was a _cool_ nerd, but the rest of them were fair game. Learning stuff, listening to teachers, crying when you punched them… so lame.

Delano kicked her under the table. "If Edward says there's parasites, then there's parasites. That's the way it goes."

She was just saying that because she _loved_ Edward. Ick. Obviously, she didn't understand that she was, like, ten years younger than him, and he was _lame_. And by the time she was old enough to marry him, he'd be _ancient_ and lame. The attractiveness of that whole situation escaped Tyler. Who needed love anyway? There was no point in kissing people when you could punch them.

Her mom said she'd figure it out one day. She sincerely hoped not.

Still, she allowed Delano and the other girls to drag her off to the edge of the Wall and talk girl. She'd rather be playing soccer with the boys, but at least the girls talked about book and stuff between the gossiping—all boys did was talk about sports. It got old fast. The black girl (Tyler was bad with names) even brought a couple books to the House with her. Her parents had been librarians, and they'd nearly gotten killed on the road, lugging the bags of books around with them. Tyler liked her.

Delano turned to Charlotte—whose name Tyler only remembered because it was spelled kind of like 'latte'—and asked about violin lessons. She'd been onto the girl about that since Kane first brought her back from the ruins of one particularly rich neighborhood. She had a round face that reminded Tyler of a pumpkin, and she never talked much. She showed up with nothing but a bag of clothes and a violin, and Delano had of course thrown a fit, what with _Devil Went Down to Georgia_ being her favorite song and a fiddle being the same basic instrument as a violin…

"I can't teach you unless you have your own instrument," she was saying, sounding reserved but exasperated, "and you _don't_. You know that."

_Yeah_, Tyler thought, _but Del's stubborn like nobody's business. _

"Well," Delano argued, "why can't you make me one?"

"I've repaired violins before," the round-faced girl admitted, "but I can't _make_ them. And anyway, I don't have the stuff for it."

They debated that for a while longer, and Tyler shot a pleading glance at one of the other girls. Someone had to distract them before she died of boredom, and then everyone would have to skip dinner and morn her unfortunate death and the Redteeth would probably attack during the funeral service, and then all the survivors would send Delano away because wasn't it really her fault Tyler died in the first place?

"Hey," the black girl interrupted, "Weren't you and Miss Casil working on something together, Charlotte?"

The pale girl brightened a bit, which only happened when people asked her about her music, and replied, "Yeah. See, there's this book I read and it has a couple songs in it, and I wanted to put one of them to music, but you know I can't sing very well and I don't have really much practice composing… but we've got it now, I think."

"Can we hear?" Tyler asked, curious despite herself. She missed the Spicegirls keenly, but anything would do at this point.

Charlotte turned slightly red underneath the freckles. "Well, it won't sound too great on account of me not being a good singer, but, you know, if you really want to… it goes like this..."

She reached into the case that she kept on her at all times and pulled the instrument out, prettily varnished and perfectly tuned, and slid the bow across the strings with a beautiful low sound almost like a sigh. Charlotte told them she'd been learning since she was old enough to hold the violin properly, which was about nine years, and it showed. Personally, Tyler thought she might be a prodigy, like Wolfbane Matzert or whatever his name was.

"Lords of fire, earth and water,  
Lords of rain and wind and snow,  
when will come the old man's daughter  
Time to come or long ago?  
Lords of water, earth and fire,  
lords of wind and snow and rain,  
where is born the heart's desire?  
life, as all life, born with pain."

The tune was pretty fast but, as Tyler recognized from piano lessons, done in minor chords, which made it sound strange.

"It's a wedding song," Charlotte explained, setting her instrument back down, "but the people who sang it were Indians, and they were kind of strange. I want it to have verses, only I'm not much of a poet. Don't know what to do about that…"

Delano froze up, with that look that said she was about to cry on her face, and Tyler winced. "My sister… was a poet…" she managed to explain, when everyone looked questioningly at her.

Tyler took her hand and pulled her off to the side where she could cry in peace. It was what you did when people made you think of your family; if you needed to cry you went off away from the others and then you came back when you were better. The boys did it too. Nobody was supposed to talk about their family, because a lot of people didn't have a mom, or a dad, or a sibling. All Delano had was Edward, so this tended to happen a lot… Charlotte didn't have anything either, but she _never_ cried. It was weird.

Tyler supposed, as she sat down beside her friend's sobbing form, that she was lucky her family was still together. She had her mom _and_ her uncle, and she'd never known her dad to begin with. She even had Zim and Dib, who were, like, brothers or cousins or something. She didn't much like thinking about what the other kids were going through.

"C'mon," she said, pulling Delano to her feet at last, "Let's go find Edward. He can bore you with mathematical equations until your head explodes."

As the blond girl wiped her eyes and attempted to smile, Tyler silently cursed the stupid aliens who turned the lights off in the first place. If they ever showed their faces around this planet again, Tyler was going to kick their _ass_.

And the cursing made her feel a little better, even if it was only in her head.

--

"Listen children to a story  
That was written long ago  
About a kingdom on a mountain  
And a valley far below…"

Johnny sighed, back against the wall of his house. He was outside of the fire light, eyes closed but still seeing the flickering reds and yellows behind his eyelids, and the song was just far enough away that it felt like a sound track. God, he missed movies. The silver screened perfection of people who weren't really people at all dancing in and out of a plot that was too wonderful to be real.

He'd been thinking a lot about the woman in his dream, trying to figure out… something. Anything. She was beautiful, but she had been… soft. Sweet, and kind, and quick to forgiveness. Weak, if you wanted to be brutally honest, but not in a way he'd dream of holding against her. It was as if she'd been too good for the world. That was, he assumed, why he'd loved her. In the dream, there had been this feeling of near perfection, a glittering crystal in the morning sun, the last unpolluted creek still rushing with cool water in the summer. He had felt it so strongly, almost like an ache, when he looked at her. But beyond it all, there was this surety that it couldn't last.

Even in something as irrational as a dream, he'd know that perfection of that sort could never survive. The crystal is smudged and broken, the river turned murky. She'd been too good, _too_ perfect, and of course it couldn't be allowed. Like that one poem, the one Squee liked…

_The angels, not half so happy in heaven,_

_Went envying her and me,_

_Yes! That was the reason, as all men know,_

_In this kingdom by the sea,_

_That the wind came out of the cloud by night_

_Chilling and killing my Annabelle Lee._

That poem always made him uneasy. It sounded insane, especially the end, almost like something he might think of himself. Except that he'd never bothered with poetry, really, as it was so stereotypically misunderstood that he'd rather shoot himself again than be caught composing it. Although Mr. Poe certainly had a way with it…

But yes, the woman had been a bit like Annabelle Lee. Sweet and loving, and no doubt angels would have been jealous if there were angels to begin with.

Of course, she was nothing like Devi.

Devi was harsh and dark and not particularly attractive, and above all things, very much _real_. A part of the world, rooted in it—if scornfully so—as much as the trees or stars. Where the Woman had been like a flower among weeds, with soft petals and sweet perfume, Devi was like a skinny vine that wasn't sure if it should bloom or not, because who needs flowers anyway? She had thorns.

It was very confusing, then, when he put them side by side in his head. Logically, he should prefer the kind, wonderful person who had never rejected him or insulted him or beat his head into a mirror then left him to bleed in near comatose. And yet…

And yet, it was Devi he was ultimately fondest of. Precisely _because_ she was tough and smart, and not afraid to beat him to a bloody pulp if he started looking dangerous. Devi was some one that he knew he couldn't corrupt. She had the feeling of someone who'd battled darkness and come out the victor—he couldn't help but wonder what had happened to her in the months he was away, and if it was somehow his fault.

Besides which, The Change had thrust him into the peculiar position of actually _needing_ her. After all, if she died, what was left for him? He couldn't run this hungry band of survivors—he could barely keep himself under control!

She was something else, he supposed.

"Now they stand beside the treasure,  
On the mountain dark and red,  
Turn the stone and look beneath it…  
'peace on earth' was all it said."

In typical speak-of-the-devil form, Devi caught his eye and extricated herself from the crowd huddled around Vatusia. It was very nearly summer, but the night was still a touch chill. After all, the last snow had only fallen in early April.

"I remember this song," she sighed, leaning against the wall beside him. "It's from an oldish movie… mmm… 'Billy Jack'. The one about the Indians."

"Indians?" Johnny repeated.

"Go ahead and hate your neighbor,  
Go ahead and cheat a friend,  
do it in the name of heaven  
you can justify it in the end…"

"Native Americans, whatever. It was this one, lone white guy trying to protect this whole reservation full of 'em. The bad guys did something horrible to his girlfriend, I think. For revenge. It's been a while." The woman gestured towards the fire.

"…on a bloody morning after  
Who, one tin soldier rides away."

"Now," Johnny muttered, more to himself than anyone else, "why does that situation sound so familiar?"

"Maybe you saw the movie," Devi shrugged.

"Couldn't remember if I had," the madman scowled, closing his eyes again. "But I don't think that's it."

In the center of the circle a ways away, Vatusia was taking requests for her next song, and there was the typical riot of voices expected from approximately thirty adults all trying to find a song someone else had heard of.

The answer was right on the tip of his tongue, but unsurprisingly, something in his head was fighting him. The girlfriend, the man, the tribe, the fire…

A flash of screaming and wild fire and the glint bouncing off badly worn field armor, and anger and a question… a _why_…

And then it was gone. Johnny shook his head.

"No one knows what it's like  
To be the bad man, to be the sad man,  
Behind blue eyes…"

Devi snorted, glancing over at her companion. Johnny caught the look and rolled his eyes, the way he had once upon a bookstore. They shared a silent laugh, and he had the strange sensation of not exactly going back, but of moving forward.

"How does she always know?" Devi mused.

"Our dear Vatusia must have the shining," the maniac grinned. "Squee too, naturally."

Devi raised an amused brow. "So does that make your house the Overlook?"

"The Underlook, if you want to be accurate," Johnny shot back fondly. Although, there was certainly something to be said for the comparison… But no, the Overlook would faint in horror at some of the things his house had seen.

"But my _dreams_, they aren't as empty,  
As my conscience seems to be,  
I have hours only lonely  
My love is vengeance, that's never free…"

And they let the music wash over them.

--

Johnny ran through the woods, his heavy breathing and staccato footfalls the only sound. A lesser man would have collapsed long ago from exhaustion or twisted an ankle somewhere along the shadow realm of the forest floor, but not him. A light ahead, tiny, flickering. A spider web caught and tore across his shoulders.

Beyond the sound of his breath, there was now the unmistakable crackling of fire, audible even at this distance, and his heart sank even as his feet quickened. A scream sounded just as he burst through the thicket, rushing head long into the blaze that was once his village. He stopped cold, blood like ice despite the roaring heat.

He should have known! He never should have gone off like that, he should… he should have…

Another scream, and he was off again, moving so fast his feet barely touched the ground. Somehow, and he wasn't sure how because at this point everything had faded into a rush of adrenalin and motion, somehow he got the woman out before the smoke could fill her lungs and poison her from the inside out. Where were the others? Had there been a meeting? Or, god forbid, was he too late for the rest? Were they all crumpled and blacked on the floors of their own homes?

What about his family?

He ran, weaving between the blazing remains of happy homes, searching for what had been _his_. There was no way to tell them apart now, but he knew the way like it was carved into the flesh of his heart. Was she alright? Surely, she would be. She had to be. The Gods wouldn't do that to him, not after all he'd done, not after all the years…

And then he was there. Burst in, searched as thoroughly as his panicked brain could manage, found nothing. Sparks caught in their own wind brushed his skin like searing snowflakes, but he felt nothing. Back outside, and everything was heaps of golden rubble, the air around wavering like water, and he wondered if it was all a dream. The pain was too numb, the fear was too real—it couldn't be actually happening.

In the corner of his eye, he caught sight of firelight glinting off steel, a sight that felt strange and surreal, because he hadn't seen it in so many years, not since… oh no…

He whirled and the first thing he saw was armor, real metal sheet armor, and he wondered how a person could wear that in the heart of a fire. Then, as he came closer, a smile glinted through the shimmering air like steel, and he _knew_.

"Tú…" he whispered, fury clawing through his veins and tendons, involuntarily twitching his muscles. _You did this._

The grin spread horrifically, the fire reflecting in his eyes. "Sí."

And behind the monster that had once so resembled a man, Johnny spotted a figure sprawled on the ground, darkened to a silhouette by the sooty firelight. He saw it, saw _her_, and there was no question. The world swirled into a haze of heat and hatred, a spinning vortex with only one thing crystal clear:

_Kill._

It snapped back into place as only the habits of a lifetime can, like breathing or opening your eyes in the morning when the sunlight wrenches you out of bed. But this time, there was a difference to the word. It was dark and more than that, it was _personal_; now, he was about to do something he'd sworn himself against, and he didn't care. Why had he ever? Why defend what spat on his defending? Why spare what refused sparing? Why respect what defied respect? For all the wasted restraint and hope and patience and the_ betrayal_, finally, it was his turn for vengeance.

Black wings beat in the edges of his consciousness as he dove forward, unarmed and unafraid. Between the wavering of reality, he caught sight of his hands coated with black blood and bodies scattered around him, and the men kept coming but it didn't matter because he killed them all, one at a time, weaponless and screaming curses older than any empire. Then there were no more, just the two of them. _Tú y me__, __Cruzito…_

Johnny smiled, and he felt his face split from the sheer rage of it. Splattered with blood and soot and grime, he charged, felt his bruised body meet hot steel and sunk nails into the soldier's eyes, laughing and screaming as he fought back so weakly, and sank teeth into the soft human throat and _ripped_.

And Johnny awoke laughing.

--

_Dear Die-ary,_

_Life repeats itself in endless circles. I have come back to my end, which is also my beginning, and the past is the future turned on itself—almost the same but always different, a spiral of time and events within the fabric of the universe, a three and four dimensional tapestry._

_I won't remember this in the morning. I have to get it down on paper. I have to remember. This is important, it's true and it's important and I won't remember this in the morning so I have to write it now. The dark spot is opening up, like some sort of fucking flower and I don't want to know any more. If it was so bad I had to lock it away, I sure as fuck don't need to _

_I have to remember. I have to remember I don't want to sleep but its dragging me back under andI haveto_

_Hav e t o_

TBC


	18. Depths Concealed

_The Change_

_Summary_: the world is wicked, the world is cruel. No one knows this better than humanity's emotional sewer system, Johnny C. But floods are a thing of the past, and the world is spiraling out of control. It seems like maybe, this time, the lights have gone out for good.  
_Story:_ a crossover of Johnny the Homicidal maniac, _Dies the Fire_, Invader Zim, and misc. names and places. In which the old world ends, and a new world begins.  
_Leading characters_: Johnny C., Devi D, Todd 'Squee' Castil, and the Zim and Dib duo.  
_Warnings_: Murder, language, references to cannabalism, of course Johnny C. himself, and religious stuff.

The next book in the series that inspired this story just came out! I'm so excited and obssesed with reading it now. Until I finish it, updates may be a bit slow... but I'll probably have it done by next weekend. I do recomend it to all of my readers! I mean, if you like this story then you're sure to love _Dies the Fire_. Go buy it. Now.

* * *

8th

Devi was planting onions when the alarm went off for the second time, snapping heads to attention all across the field. She quickly calculated her force number—of the twenty of them outside the walls, only fifteen could actually fight, and only ten had received archery instructions from Johnny, who was, incidentally, going to miss this fight. He'd been out cold two hours ago when she'd gone up to check. He'd been avoiding sleep the last three or so nights, and she knew he tended to sleep a full twenty-four hours after that kind of stint.

He told her once that he used to go weeks without even a doze, but that was utterly impossible so she chalked it up to him losing track of time and generally being crazy.

A messenger—Aviva, probably, since she always volunteered for this kind of thing—rushed out through the Wall's rear door and directed them to the opposite side as Devi passed out the weapons. Lucky thing they'd taken to carrying a basket of them anywhere outside the Walls, even if they were a hassle and took two people to haul.

Taking a moment of precious time, Devi stopped to admire the sword she lifted out. It was a dull silver, and the cross-bar was a simple T, but it was the first that Trisha made—the only, so far—and Zim had insisted that she take it, and really, who was she to refuse? Zim had even taken the liberty of carving a rune into the handle: three triangles, two sideways and one turned diagonally. He'd said it was a symbol of the Tallest, although it looked more like Sanskrit than Russian.

Reality snapped back into place as the horn sounded again, and five of her people rushed into the compound as another five who'd been doing chores inside rushed out to take their place. That brought the functioning armed force up to twenty, which should be sufficient for a skirmish. They rounded the corner and met the enemy almost immediately, which made her wonder how they'd gotten so close so fast.

They charged.

At the front of the Troupe, Devi met the redteeth's leader head on with a swing for the pelvis. She was aiming for the chest, but her wrists and arms were still largely unaccustomed to the weight of a sword, even such a light one, and refused to cooperate. It didn't much matter, in the end, because the steel bit into soft flesh either way and left her first opponent bleeding mess on the ground behind her. With a weapon like that, against an unprotected mass like this, she was like a tank cutting a bloody swath through the enemy ranks.

The point slid into someone's pectoral as if it was a bread knife in butter, and Devi fought the impulse to bend over and retch. She could handle most things, but this, oh, this was like… it felt wrong. A man in the tattered remains of a Hawaiian shirt lunged at her and she stopped him dead with steel to the larynx. As she tugged the weapon free, it occurred to her that she recognized the man now choking in a pool of his own blood—he'd been down the hall when she'd worked for the Nerve as a cover illustrator, the one who usually took the sci-fi novels.

Devi swallowed back bile.

After that, she allowed the battle to fade into a series of swings and ducks and stabs, dodged an arrow, at one point meeting another person armed with a sword—it looked like a museum piece, but it would have killed her just as dead, old or new. She met him blow for blow, which wasn't _too_ hard since neither of them knew what they were doing to begin with, and eventually caught him in the temple, cracking open his skull like a breakfast egg.

There, that felt more respectable.

With no more opponents in her line of sight, she turned to the force behind her, who were mostly still embroiled in their fights. A few of them looked like they needed backup and she obliged, cutting in and cutting out until there was only one pair left on the field. Devi and the rest of her force circled up around them, ready to jump in at any moment an opening presented itself. The woman facing off against Derek jumped back, took in an eyeful of the surrounding force, and threw down her trowel.

"I surrender," she muttered, accent some variation of oriental, and strongly so.

Devi reached out and pulled Derek back towards the circle, stepping in to take his place. "And why should we let you live?"

"I know Negro's plans," she shot back, tilted eyes narrowed. "No point in killing unarmed person, is there?"

"No…" Devi sighed, "I suppose not." A motion lowered the Troupe's weapons.

"All I want is food, somewhere safe to sleep. You can give me that, and I stay with you. No slipping secrets. Reasonable?"

"More or less."

The captive looked Devi up and down, appraising. "You are the leader here?"

"More or less."

"Hm. Take me back, and we will talk. Also, I want that one," she pointed at Kevin, who looked taken aback, "with me. He is handsome."

A couple people around the circle giggled, and a lot more fought down grins. Devi shot Kevin a questioning look, and he sighed, stepping in beside the raven-haired woman. She looked pleased, and took his arm in a way that allowed no question. It was kind of funny.

As Devi led them back inside the walls, stepping over and around the cooling bodies on the lawn, one of the women in her troupe sidled over and gave her a meaningful look.

"You're the boss," she whispered, "but it looks to _me_ like you're bringing another psycho into the House."

The blue-haired woman straightened her shoulders and replied, "One thing you can say for psychos: they get the job done."

--

"Armor?" Johnny said, skeptically.

"Yep," Tenna answered, bending over the table to grab the protractor. Why were these things never on the right side of the table? It was, like, supernatural or something.

"The fuck we have time for making armor," the madman went on, scowling. "I've barely got time to train the new recruits with all the _farming_ going on right now."

"Devi says we can have the kids and the injured and the annoying people work on it. Well, part of it anyway."

Johnny hopped up onto the table and sat cross-legged beside the glass of tea—that was Tenna's, and made with one of the last packets, too. "I don't see how we can do it," he insisted, scowling. "I mean, we'd need huge sheets of metal and such. Machinery. Does anybody here have any idea how to do that?"

Personally, Tenna thought he looked more bothered by the idea of armor itself than the time or materials wasted on it. This was weird, you know, because there was nothing bad about armor, unless you counted saving your life as a bad thing.

"No, no. We'll boil leather, once we've got enough material, and then we'll sew washers to the inside. It'll be plenty strong enough to shed an arrow or two. We can make vests no problem, probably pants too, but Devi says proper outfits'll have to wait for us to get more practice."

Johnny flipped a knife into the air, catching it by the hilt and then tossing it again. Where he got those things from was anyone's guess—there was a rumor that he used to be a performer and it was all sleight of hand. Might explain the way he could toss them around like they were blunt toothpicks, too.

"Leather?" he repeated, looking less stiff now. "Well, it's still a waste of time, but as long as we aren't going in for the _walking slabs of metal_ look…" He jumped off the table and left his knife planted in the wood, strolling towards the door. "Scavenging parties will need to be arranged, right? I'll go."

Tenna shook her head after the retreating form. At least he was sane about seventy percent of the time now; a month ago it was more like fifty-fifty. That had been hard on the people who actually interacted with him, of which she was not one, but Devi _had_ been. In fact, she'd looked really stressed up until, like, a month ago. A little less. It had been… worrying. And it had been a bad indicator for Tenna too—she might have done something drastic if the two hadn't come to that truce.

The stairs took her up to the top level where Squee was talking to his bear again—he was so _cute_, she was going to have to loan him Spooky sometime—and she exited into the sunshine outside. The weather was surprisingly nice, which is something most people who live in cities stop noticing after they turn eleven or so.

The fresh smoke blowing in from the city spoilt her mood a bit, though.

Gwen waved from across the field and made her way over, sidestepping a small plot of garlic and nearly tripping over her brother. Tenna sighed. The woman would probably never get the hang of farming. Once industrial, always industrial, she supposed.

"Hey," the shorter woman said, puffing a bit from all the twisting she'd done to avoid the crops. The green in her hair was mostly faded out by now, though it was still in what people liked to call the lesbian-cut, which was a bit of a misnomer.

"Hi!" Tenna burbled. She'd rather chat than plow any day—it was horrible hard work, and the rows were never straight.

"So, you have the matchmaking mojo, right?" Gwen asked, more like a reminder to herself than a proper question. "I was wondering if you could do me a bit of a favor…"

"Oh really?" the black woman giggled, "Well, I don't do horoscopes without consulting Spooky, I should warn you."

"No, no. I just wanted to know if this guy is into me. I'm no good at telling." Gwen held out her hands in mock surrender.

"You came to the right place!"

The white woman turned and discretely pointed to a mess of auburn hair with a green jacket tied around his waist. He was struggling with a spot that refused hoeing, probably the ancient knotted remain of what had once been a tree. Tenna grimaced in sympathy.

"Ben, huh?" she mused, running the data in her head. The boy was extremely tolerant and good-natured, which might be just what Gwen needed, provided she could cope with the bad jokes… "You know you guys have rhyming names, right? And that he's, like, five years younger than you."

"I've always liked younger guys," Gwen shrugged. "So does he like _me_?"

"Oh, he's interested. His girlfriend was in Japan when the lights went out, and he's kinda lonely. You know how men are."

"Not really," the punk said airily, "but it's convenient. Is there anything you _don't _know?"

"Yep. I don't know who Nny used to be!"

The women both laughed. The strangest running jokes popped up when you were sequestered inside a wall with only thirty people day in and day out. It would probably get boring once things had settled down—there was no doubt in Tenna's mind that things would get better. To think anything else was silly.

The black woman bid her friend adieu and wished her the best of luck with Ben. All she really wanted was for everyone to be happy. That was why she'd fine-tuned her awareness to track down matches, crushes, and soul mates in the first place. Everyone wanted love, and if she could offer them a chance of it…

Of course, sometimes it wasn't so cut and dry. Sometimes love was pain, and sometimes it just made life harder. Tenna knew the dangers of falling for someone as much as she knew it could bring unbelievable happiness. It was the inherent risk in matters of the heart. Devi and Johnny, for instance.

From the first time Devi had mentioned the man ("Oh, and I met this guy at the bookstore today. He was checking out _The Fly_, and I told him…") Tenna had known. This man, so obviously strange and likely unstable even before that disastrous date, was perfect for Devi—who was not a romantic, who didn't _need_ love, didn't even believe in it, but who deserved to have all the things in the world she'd been denied. Tenna couldn't remember how many times she'd wished Devi would just go lesbian, so maybe something would finally go _right_ for her.

And that night, when Devi had called Tenna from a payphone, hysterical and near to tears, Tenna had been struck with the urge to march up to Johnny C's door and castrate him will a dull spoon. How dare he? When her friend had liked him so much, when they'd been so perfect for each other! Squeeki had the whole fucking wedding planned out!

And as she drove Devi back to her apartment, she had thought she'd never forgive him for hurting her friend like that. Devi was fragile, whatever she wanted people to think, and she had a hard enough time of things without some psycho making attempts on her life. No matter how good it could have been—and Tenna knew, intuitively, that it would have been _great_—she could never forgive Johnny for what he'd done.

Unless.

Unless, somehow, he managed to make it up to Devi. Unless he made her the happiest fucking woman in the whole fucking world. Unless, by some miracle, Devi could bring herself to forgive him first. And then, and only then, could _she_ forgive him.

So when Devi had suggested that they go to stay with Johnny the day the lights went out, behind her carefree façade, Tenna had arrived at two conclusions.

One: they were going to have to do this, so she shouldn't put up a fight. Survival came first, grudges second. Two: if Johnny hadn't redeemed himself—somehow—by the time they were safe…

Tenna would kill him.

Maybe it would have disturbed Devi to know that her best friend was thinking such a thing, to see the ruthlessness behind the ditzy smile. To see the way Tenna carefully gauged the killer's weaknesses when eyes were on other things. So, Tenna also resolved to never let her friend find out. And she had hoped, for Devi's sake, that the maniac could pull off a miracle.

Tenna, gazing off into the House, knew that Johnny was down there—sulking, perhaps, or working with Derek, or talking to Devi.

And she also knew that he was safe.

--

_Dear Die-ary,_

_I've begun to wonder just how crazy I am._

_May 11th, 1998_

--

Devi glared at Johnny. Johnny glared at Devi. The tension sparked.

"Yeah, well _you_ think we shouldn't kill anyone who decides to throw down their weapon, regardless of whether they were trying to kill _us_ moments before."

"As opposed to you, who kills the entire population of a Mexican restaurant because one woman calls him '_wacky'_?"

"Well _you_ got out, didn't you?"

Devi snorted. "Only because I was walking out the door as you had your spazz attack."

Johnny scowled, the firelight playing strange shapes over the contours of his face—he looked decidedly more healthy in the last few months, but he was still gaunt and creepy in the dim light, with cheekbones sharp enough to cut yourself on. "That didn't stop you from going out with me, did it?"

Internally, Devi wondered at the fact that she could carry on a conversation right past that. No flashbacks, no rage, no depression, and no deep, wordless fear that the mention might bring back her personal Sickness. Instead, she replied, "I didn't realize it was you at the time. Observe Johnny C, crazy-eyed and raving on the right, and quiet, introspective on the left. Do they look the same to you?"

"I think of myself as Nny in my head, you know," the madman offered, and she wasn't fazed by the non-sequiter.

"And I think that's how everyone else thinks of you too."

"Even you?"

"Yeah," she responded, feeling as if perhaps she was walking into a trap.

"…Then why do you only call me Johnny?"

Devi started to answer that, and then realized that she didn't _have_ an answer. Before That Night, he'd always been Nny to her. Even now, in her most personal moments, she thought of him as such. So why the vocal formality? Was she afraid of getting too close, of forgetting who exactly he was? Perhaps she was scared that he'd take it as a sign, an invitation to try again.

They locked eyes, her green staring into his incredibly dark ones—black in this light, and deeper than any she'd seen before. He told her once that she had beautiful eyes, but she thought, privately, that his were even more beautiful, in the same way that that the wreckage of a once lovely home was rendered beautiful in the moonlight. She'd often toyed with the idea of painting them, but first she'd been worried it would look obsessive, then she'd hated him, and now she barely had time for conversation.

His eyes stayed on hers.

"What were we arguing about?" she asked, a bit mesmerized by the flickering light across his face.

"I can't remember," the murderer muttered, looking equally distracted, "something about the troops?"

"Probably," she replied.

And it was strange, she thought, that with how busy she was, she'd choose to come out here and argue with Johnny in what little free time she had. She could have been listening to Tenna gossip, or discussing books with Tess, or finally convincing Tyler that she was too young to join the front lines. But here she was, with Johnny.

To Devi, everyone was a piece of art. Most people were, in her mind, crude sketches or shoddily colored portraits, drawn with less and less skill as they descended the ladder of likability. But people she knew well? They had full canvases. Tenna was acrylic, warm browns and golds with hints of dark places in the back of the scene. Tess was water color, blots of purple and blue and black swirling themselves into a picture of struggle and dependency. Derek was a work of pastels, somehow bright and happy in its parts and yet almost desperate in its whole, with eyes just a touch too wide, smile just a touch too bright.

But Johnny…

Johnny was an oil masterpiece, from floor to ceiling to wall. There was burnt orange and rusty red, and black that was darker than his eyes and inversely luminous. It had depth, impossible depth, almost as if you could step into it and walk for eternity, never leaving the dark room pressed into the canvas. And the orange was only here and there, but it had an overwhelming sense of _presence_, one that logically should have belonged to the bloody red, and yet didn't.

And this was the picture in Devi's head as she stared at Johnny—caught at once between the incredible realness and the image that existed only in her mind.

"You scare me," she thought, and then hissed as she realized it had been aloud.

Johnny looked a bit hurt, but more than that he looked _intense_. "Why?"

Devi shook her head. No, she didn't think she could explain it. She wasn't scared for her life anymore, or her friends'… it was like the feeling of near breathlessness you get when you stand just too near the edge of the cliff, and you know that you're the one who chose to put your feet here, even as the landscape crumbles under you.

She stood, breaking the eye contact, but reality didn't rush back to her the way she expected it to. Instead…

She had the desire to paint.

TBC


	19. She Isn't Dead

_The Change_

_Summary_: the world is wicked, the world is cruel. No one knows this better than humanity's emotional sewer system, Johnny C. But floods are a thing of the past, and the world is spiraling out of control. It seems like maybe, this time, the lights have gone out for good.

_Story:_ a crossover of Johnny the Homicidal maniac, _Dies the Fire_, Invader Zim, and misc. names and places. In which the old world ends, and a new world begins.

_Leading characters_: Johnny C., Devi D, Todd 'Squee' Castil, and the Zim and Dib duo.

_Warnings_: Murder, language, references to cannabalism, of course Johnny C. himself, and religious stuff.

* * *

14th

Kane liked Johnny, in spite of himself.

While everyone else liked to guess what Johnny had done before the Change—it was almost as popular a fallback topic as what the Change _was_, exactly— Kane had never bothered with the game. He didn't have to—there were no doubts in his mind. Nny had been a killer.

And Kane knew because he'd been one as well.

There was a confidence to the walk, and harshness to the talk, a tendency for even smiles to slowly corrupt back into dimness. Murder was a corrosive thing, whether you approved of your actions or not. Deep down, under all the ego and rational, a man knows when he's committed that kind of blasphemy.

Kane glanced into the room behind him, leaning against the doorway. Kiki was in going to need him in a couple more minutes, and he didn't want to be far away when she started up again. Teen mothers, always so edgy. He longed for a smoke, but even if there _wasn't_ a woman going through labor inside that room, he finished his last pack a week before.

He'd gotten into midwifery because it seemed the right thing to do. After years of killing and swindling and enabling other people to kill themselves, it seemed that the only way he could atone for that was by spending a lifetime bringing people back into the world. There had been a wildness in his head just before he made the decision, a kind of mental pacing, and then an itchiness afterwards—like the twitches of a smoker who quits cold. Both feelings he knew well.

That was why he liked Johnny.

He recognized the twitches, though his were for a knife and Kane's had been for a pistol, and he recognized the desperate relief when the twitches passed. Here was a man who'd been a cold blooded killer—worse than himself, Kane imagined—and quite hideously insane to boot, and still he was _trying_. Trying to be normal.

Or, what passed for normal nowadays. For example, Kane had never considered delivering a baby three stories underground in a suburban neighborhood by the light of candles _normal_ before. And yet, it was.

Kiki called out to him, and he ducked back in with quiet economy. The woman was tough, but she'd seen enough abstinence propaganda videos that the very idea of birthing scared her to death. Ironic, since she'd walked god-knows-how-many miles on foot, over unknown terrain, seven months pregnant. It was a wonder that she'd wandered this far, really, especially without a miscarriage. Having her genes in the community gene pool would be a real help someday.

Kane had thoughts like that a lot.

He went about his business with a tempered seriousness. When he'd been an intern, one of the doctors had informed him that his bedside manner was terrible. Personally, he thought he was quite good; he just didn't patronize the patients or make goo-goo eyes at their wives. Of course, he'd also suffered a few people laughing at him over the years, for his choice in occupations being too soft. You just can't please everyone.

Devi had lit him up when she found out about his past. He really should have told her, but the gravity of the situation didn't reach him until they'd already started taking in refugees, and by then it didn't seem important. She hadn't really gone past yelling at him, though—she was a smart woman, shrewd even, and she knew what they needed to survive. Which, if they planned to last more than a generation, was him.

The delivery went pretty smoothly, although he was already missing pain medication and all the fancy technology of pre-Change hospitals. He was right about Kiki being strong as an ox, though, and with an ox's hips too. Gene-pool bonus.

The young woman held her baby, that look of exhausted wonder on her face that he'd seen countless times, every repeat just as gratifying. It was the sign of a job well done, of one less sin blackening the records of his soul. He knew that he'd sleep easy tonight, if nothing else, now that this woman and her child were safe.

"What are you going to call her?" he asked, sitting on the foot of the mattress. Whole beds were a bit difficult to bring down the stairs.

Kiki looked at her baby, wrinkled and red like any newborn, and her eyes were full of adoration. "Tlalli," she replied, and the midwife thought she might be a bit addled by the birthing. "It's Aztec," she went on, dazed, "Means earth. Good name for a farming child. Already had it planned… family tradition… Kiki's short for Keagan."

Kane made a shushing motion and convinced her to sleep, bringing in an extra blanket to ward off the chill of these lower levels. It really was a marvel. All of creation, such a complex, delicate machine, and here he was, a cog in its innermost workings.

Kane wondered, looking down at the new mother and her sleeping infant, how Johnny was atoning for _his_ sins.

--

This time, it was a proper battle.

The thirty-four people in the House who weren't incapacitated—the other five hid with the children six floors down—marched out into the neighborhood, grim. Derek was feeling particularly edgy, positioned in the first rank behind Devi and Johnny themselves, and more likely than anyone to get shot if the other side decided to start loosing arrows at them. As a general rule, redteeth couldn't aim, but they _could_ shoot into a massed target just fine.

Luckily, the Troupe could do that too.

The watchman had noticed a force marching towards them from the direction of the city, larger than the last, perhaps forty or fifty people. Devi had said something about _feeling us out_ as she pulled on her leather vest. They only had a couple of those, and guess who had gotten them?

Not that Derek begrudged them that. They were, after all, at the very head of the formation. It's just that he would have liked to have one too, since he was rather close to the front himself. He had the sinking feeling that they were going to lose a few people today, superior training or not.

The two forces met without words, with a precision and mutual action like two dancers bowing to their partner. The leader of the other side had armor, of a kind, made from a stop sign fastened to his front, which would have looked hilarious if it hadn't been so formidable. Johnny was on him before Devi could bark out a single order.

Derek spotted one of the redteeth sporting a _hose_ as a weapon, and out of pure embarrassment for the other side, targeted him first. As a bowman—close combat was out of his league—he was lucky enough to have a spot on the flank that afforded him a good shot. The first arrow missed, but the second struck the target dead on, and he toppled over with fletching sprouting from his chest. Oh shit, someone had spotted him.

Shot after shot soared through the ranks of redteeth, about fifty percent accurate. Between loosing arrows, it occurred to Derek that he might actually have to retrieve the ones that hit. Personal-like. The idea of yanking a barbed stick out of someone's chest wasn't a particularly appealing one, particularly if that someone was a cooling corpse. But, there were only so many arrows.

He caught someone in the forehead and decided that there should be bonus points for shots like that. Maybe a levelup. The secret to warfare was to treat it like it was a videogame, although sometimes you confused yourself when reaching for a power up combo. He landed another hit in someone's ankle—accident—and caught sight of Devi rushing through the melee, swinging left and right. That chick was insane.

Actually, they were all kind of insane. Sometimes, Derek thought he was the only sane one in the bunch. They all went positively berserk when you put them in front of a moving target, and Johnny only encouraged it.

"Helps them focus on the target," he had said, smiling eerily. "Makes the fight more fun too."

Derek was drawn out of his memories by one particularly ugly redteeth rushing at him with a proper knife. His quick solution? Take the arrow he was about to knock and stab for the throat. It worked well enough.

The redteeth didn't have many archers, so for a while he concentrated on picking them off before they could do any force-multiplying damage. Someone on his left let out a gurgling screech, and he was depressingly aware that he recognized the voice.

Player owned.

He ran out of arrows after that and switched to a knife, which he was only marginal with. It was tempting to hang back at the edges of the battle and avoid getting killed, but you just couldn't leave your friends to fight alone. They might get hurt, and then you'd end up all regretful and… ah, screw it…

Derek dove into the heart of the fight and allowed that berserker's trance to pull him away, turning every slice and every doge into a frantic dance, a wild ecstasy of blood red and sky blue and grass green. Bow, spin, dip, switch partners.

If only he could have done this in high school.

And then there were no more, only the surviving cowards running down the street, aiming no doubt for the little corner of forest at the road's end. Reality came rushing back to the soldier, the heavy breath and the madly beating heart, and the film of blood over his hands and face. The world spun backwards dizzily.

"Can anyone shoot that far?" he heard Devi say, and assumed she meant the fleeing redteeth.

Though he itched to fall over and roll in the trampled grass in hopes of rubbing off all the blood, Derek steeled himself to the unbalanced world and cleaned off his knife like he'd been taught. Blood was hard on metal, and it would ruin the blade if left on too long. When the world stopped spinning, he turned back to the rest of the Troupe.

Devi was directing the care of injured parties and Johnny was out happily fulfilling the gruesome task of arrow retrieval. That man had a cast iron stomach. One of the bodies lying on the grass caught his eye.

"Oh shit," he whispered.

It was Pam, covered in blood and eyes closed, as if in some horrific kind of sleep. Something in the back of his head told him the closed eyes were a good thing, but he was too shocked to follow the thought back to its source.

"What?" he breathed, falling to his knees beside her. "She… what?"

Gwen was there, suddenly, leaning over Pam's blood-coated chest. "She isn't dead," the doctor informed him, voice oddly detached. "If we get her back where I can do a proper examination, I could tell you…"

Derek blocked her out, focusing on a single thought. _She isn't dead_. He reached down and took her hand—still warm, thank the goddess—and held it tightly, leaning over her as if he could somehow protect her now.

"Don't die, Pam," he whispered, only half aware that he was speaking, "Don't die. I need you here, okay? I don't want to wait for the Summerlands to see you again; I want to see you today, and tomorrow, and every day after that for the rest of my life. The Goddess can fuck off because you're _mine_, okay? I love you."

And then the silent woman cracked open one eye and whispered, "now that's a surprise."

--

"I just don't understand why I have to go," Dib said, scowling.

"Everyone else is too tired or injured," Zeta explained, scowling as well. She'd been sent out as well since they were the only teenagers in the camp besides Kiki, and Kiki wasn't fit for anything besides sleeping and nursing, an image that made Dib blanch.

"Are you _sure_ Zim couldn't come?" he pressed on, swinging his pack from shoulder to shoulder.

"Yes, good god, for the thousandth time YES."

She didn't need to be so _rude_ about it. She'd been remarkably less stupid since she showed up at the House's doorstep—Dib had always suspected it was an act, adopted years ago when she realized it was impossible for smart kids to get popular—but she never _did_ stop being rude. At least to him. It was probably just part of her comfort zone.

Dib checked his gear and picked a spot at the side of the river to set it all down, as meticulously careful with the weapons and tools as he'd ever been with his cameras. He had an old Polaroid in his room at the House, with enough film to take three pictures, and it was a crying shame that he'd never get to snap shots of bigfeet or ghosts again but what could you do?

Dib did note, happily and with interest, that the ESP he'd so carefully nurtured was picking up a lot more activity these days. It was almost as if the death of technology had created a gap for the Other World to slide in through, just cracks now but someday...

Something jumped in the river and distracted him.

He pulled out his fishing pole and carefully strung it. There was only so much fishing line in the world, now, and you had to be careful with it. Zim had forgotten that last time and…

Ha.

Of course, that was the reason he hadn't been allowed along, as much as his blacksmithing duties. The alien was chaos incarnate, leaving a path of mayhem and destruction in his wake, and the fish probably wouldn't be biting if the riverside caught on fire.

But it was so _dull _out here without him. Actually, everything was dull without him. And when he wasn't distracted, sometimes he thought about his family.

"Hey Dib, get your ass over here!"

The day went by slowly as they took turns manning the rods and boiling the water—fifteen minutes at temperature and it was safe to drink—while Tara ventured out into the forest and tracked down a rabbit or two. She'd taken to it like a bird to flying, and even Johnny--who trained her—was grudgingly proud. She was a little OCD, though, so you didn't want her around the campsite for too long.

They worked through the afternoon, collecting three buckets of water, a handful of wild berries and one fish. It was hot for May, and by the time Tara waltzed back into camp, both Dib and Zeta had left their shirts somewhere on the riverbank. Tara snorted distastefully, and obviously, but Dib couldn't figure out what the problem was. After all, Zeta had actually kept her bra on today, and she'd certainly never been shy. No shockers there.

"I just don't think it's right that she's running around topless with a boy in camp," Tara said, checking the fishing rod.

"What? Why?"

"Because," the picky girl started, and then couldn't seem to think of any reasons. "Well, you could, like… what if you… It's just not proper. That's all."

"That's more ridiculous than the theory of unicorns drowning during the Flood," Dib told her, crossing his arms. "If Zeta wanted to sleep with me, a little thing like a shirt wouldn't get in her way."

Tara scowled and recast the line, pointedly not replying.

"And anyway, I'm not interested," Dib went on, long used to talking while people ignored him. "I never _did_ understand what was so great about girls."

And so the afternoon slipped into night.

They sat up a campfire with a couple matches, which wasn't strictly allowed—the matches were hoarded and you weren't supposed to light a fire on this kind of venture because it attracted enemies and bandits, but when did teenagers ever listen to adults?

The berries were divvied up and Zeta drew the unpleasant task of cleaning the fish for dinner, and Dib fed the fire with the zeal of mild pyromania. It was something else he and Zim had in common. Tara informed them that she'd be setting rabbit traps tomorrow while she was securing the ponies. Boy could she talk.

Dib sank into a kind of trance, mentally checking the area for life or anything resembling it. He wasn't good enough to catch small animals, but big things like dogs and people (and malevolent ghosts) registered easily on his radar. Dogs in particular he looked out for—he'd never liked them much, and every dog was about two meals away from a wolf. It had been two months since anybody fed a dog.

A blip showed up on his scan, getting closer by the minute. Human, and headed for their camp, and with the girls busy it was his job to dispose of it. A touch shakily, Dib grabbed a knife and quietly ventured out of the firelight's ring, focusing on the spot where the intruder was now hiding.

Something fluttered in his stomach.

The blip shifted and at the same time there was a crack of twigs, and Dib jumped forward, aiming himself for a quick kill in the darkness. Steel met steel, a sharp breath reached his ears, and Dib slid his weapon down the side of the other. _A sword_.

What little firelight filtered into the forest caught in the person's eyes—a woman, he could tell from the grunt—and she swung again, a blow that he parried.

Something about her felt familiar. He was terrible at recognizing people, but he knew she was familiar. Between swings, he pushed at her mind desperately, looking for some clue. Finally, his mind caught the corner of one image and ripped it away, absorbing the new information as he fought.

A necklace with a skull dangling from it.

"Gaz?" he gasped, ducking one particularly viscous stroke.

The girl stopped, sword frozen in mid-air. "…Dib?"

Later, Dib would tell her that he hadn't been aware of dropping his knife, or of throwing himself at her, idiotically braving the perils of her sword to sweep her into a desperate hug. He was only aware of her shoulders under his arms, and her smell—ice and ham, and cotton…

"Dib?" she finally said, voice softer than he could remembered hearing it before.

"Yeah," he whispered.

"If you don't get off of me right now, I'm going to skewer you."

The boy fell back, laughing. That was his sister alright, thank god for ESP. He took her arm and dragged her back to camp before she could say anything else, heedless of her squawks. Just like old times.

"Guys, Oh my god, GUYS! You'll never believe who I found!" he shouted, bursting into camp.

"It was Zim, wasn't it?" Tara guessed, without turning around. "Can't keep you guys apart for a day without one of you flipping out."

"No!" he replied, a bit put out. "My sister! I found my sister!" He pushed the aforementioned girl into the center of the camp.

"Your…" Tara actually turned around to look at her, walking towards them with a curious look. "I thought you didn't have a family."

"I thought so too," Dib said happily. "I was wrong! I've never been so happy to be wrong!"

The older girl looked the siblings up and down. "Well, you don't look much alike," she said, "but you have the same eyes."

Dib took a moment to look his sister over as well. She looked definitely thinner, and her eyes—open fully, which was unusual in itself—had a strange haunted cast to them. Her shirt was a rag, and her skirt was torn to shreds at the bottom. Dried blood crusted one cheek.

"Come over to the fire," Dib said, more softly, "You gotta tell me what happened."

Zeta watched them from the edge of the fire, nodding to Gaz as she sat down. Zeta never liked Dib, but she'd always respected Gaz, at least. The ragged girl looked around at her newfound company and shook shaggy chin-length hair out of her face.

"Well," she started, voice creaking from relative disuse, "they came for Dad five days after the… you know… and told him to fix it. He could barely function, he just kept sitting in the basement, staring at the machines like he was waiting for them to shout 'Surprise!' and go back to normal. And he stumbled out the door when they came for him, and he told them that he had no idea what was going on. He couldn't fix it. They went apeshit."

Dib remembered the ruins of his house, the burnt, blackened shell, and the absolute deadness on his radar. He'd gone inside—or rather tried to, but his father's body was lying by the door and he just couldn't go in after that. He couldn't take it.

"I knew something like this was going to happen. I tried to tell him. He wouldn't listen. I had weapons in my room, for scaring Dib, and I'd sharpened up my sword when I figured out what was going on. I remember thinking, 'people will die.' When they showed up for Dad, I… I went up and got it. I knew. Dib was out looking for Zim, so I knew he'd be okay, I just had to get myself out."

Zeta offered Gaz a slice of fish, and she ate it so quickly it might have disappeared into thin air.

"I did. I took my backpack and filled it up with beef jerky and vitamin C gummies, and some ibuprofen, and I just left. I hid whenever I saw someone coming, and I made it out of the city and into the forest, and I've been moving around a lot ever since. I ran out of food two weeks ago, and…"

She choked a little, pulling off her backpack and showing them the inside. Amateur dried meat made a thin layer over the bottom.

"Dog," she explained, rezipping it.

"No point in wasting it," Tara murmured, taking the pack over to the pile of supplies.

Gaz looked at Dib, eyes sliding half-closed the way he was used to seeing them, and she said, "I always loved Sword and Shield games, you know. But now… it's real… and I don't like it as much as I thought I would."

Dib took his sister's hand, a bit surprised when she didn't hit him. She'd changed, obviously, though what part of her journey was to blame, he wasn't entirely certain. It could have been their father's death, it could have been living in the wilderness, or the killing, or it could have been something she'd refused to mention…

Or maybe, just maybe, she had missed him too.

TBC


	20. The Snake Turning on Itself

_The Change_

_Summary_: the world is wicked, the world is cruel. No one knows this better than humanity's emotional sewer system, Johnny C. But floods are a thing of the past, and the world is spiraling out of control. It seems like maybe, this time, the lights have gone out for good.  
_Story:_ a crossover of Johnny the Homicidal maniac, _Dies the Fire_, Invader Zim, and misc. names and places. In which the old world ends, and a new world begins.  
_Leading characters_: Johnny C., Devi D, Todd 'Squee' Castil, and the Zim and Dib duo.  
_Warnings_: Murder, language, references to cannibalism, of course Johnny C. himself, and religious stuff.

A/n: The two bands quoted are Space and Greenday, respectively. Both seemed plausible choices for a '98 soft-core punk.

* * *

_Dear Die-ary,_

_That tragic past that the Devil mentioned... what did he mean? Sometimes, when I'm awake, I can almost remember a feeling, a sensation of... something. Like time passing, like leaves turning, like autum wind, like walls collapsing and a snake twisting in on itself... and then, there are the dreams._

_Rational._

_I've gone back and flipped through all my earlier entries but nothing makes sense. I've dreamed about oceans and rainforests and endless prairies and primeval forests. Impossible. And the girl in my dreams, she had dark skin—the whole village did. And come to think of it, I didn't even look like myself, half the time._

_And another thing! If they're memories, then I have too many. I've got more flashbacks than I can count and none of them are part of my childhood! I'm always the same age! I don't…_

_God…_

_I don't understand._

_May 16th, 1998_

--

There was another battle on the sixteenth. Devi knew that was the date because Johnny's calendar said so—although he said he didn't remember buying a calendar, particularly one illustrated with adorable Chihuahuas. Devi wasn't sure what to think about that.

A man named Jeff was their only immediate casualty, but the injured were another matter. (A lot.) They received an influx of refugees on the seventeenth, ten of them, from somewhere to the south. They didn't talk much, but they helped out with the next batch of leather vests. Devi noted with approval that they'd all have some in a few days.

Life proceeded at what passed for normal these days, one slipping into another as the weather grew more heated. Hunger was a constant companion, accompanied by fatigue. Chores faded from planting to watering and weeding. There was another skirmish, this time attached to a message:

"Negro has no tolerance for rebels. Surrender now and only some of you will join the cook pots."

It was generally agreed that they were going to have to do something about the redteeth sooner or later. If only they had more people…

Johnny took to telling Devi about his dreams, first vaguely, then in detail. She found herself fascinated and, oddly, flattered. Those dreams were the innermost workings of his mind, and he was sharing them with her, no holding back. Together they puzzled over the meanings, the possibilities. Devi had an idea, but she kept it to herself. After all, that was _impossible_, right?

And the month drew to a close.

--

Pam and Gwen had been friends for a long time. They knew each other top to bottom, front to back, knew every subject that would make the other happy or miserable or uncomfortable. Years brougth understanding of covens and sushi, of religion and skydiving. And if it weren't for their long time friendship, Pam would never have met Derek.

"_Mr. Psycho, he'll blow you away_…"

That being said, Pam still could only take so much impromptu singing from her friend. Particularly when she didn't even know the song so there was no chance of singing along. And particularly, _particularly_ when Gwen's musical choice was so creepy.

"Gwen, I'm a recovering veteran, show me some mercy!"

"—_See_ _his eyes? They're bloodshot red, and blood shot's what you're going to be_…"

"Okay, seriously. Isn't it bad enough that we're working in eighty degree weather? Do you have to _sing_ too?"

"_The city's closing in on him, and everything's getting smaller and smaller, and his fingers are getting itchy now, and he won't be held responsible, so_…"

Pam gave up after that. It was too hot for arguing and she wasn't getting anywhere anyways. Instead, she tuned the notes out and stretched, reaching for the sky and sighing. It was good to get outside—even if it was only so she could pull the grass shoots out of the pumpkin patch. It beat sitting inside, sewing washers onto the inside of leather vests, and it sure as hell beat doctor Kane's bedside manner. He and his sister were peas in a pod—both with all the subtlety of a street sign to the forehead.

Of course, there was another reason she wanted to be outside…

The blond woman turned her head just slightly, aiming for a glimpse of one particular man. What had Derek been thinking? She'd stewed over it for the entire time she'd been recovering, and the ultimate answer still eluded her. He was her best friend and she loved him, more than anyone else in the world, but… well, he was _gay_. The… the _paradox_ he'd dropped into her lap was driving her insane.

And he hadn't been on the same level as her more than once in the last two weeks, and that once had only furthered her confusion. He had dropped into her bedroom, just as she was getting well enough to walk around, and he'd totally avoided her questions. Well, enough was enough.

_"I must insist on being a pessimist, I'm a loner in a catastrophic mind…"_

Gwen switched songs, and Pam caught the lines somewhere in the mix of guesswork syllables. The punk woman's idea of singing was a long string of vowels interspaced with perfectly pronounced phrases, a side effect of not bothering with most song's lyrics—the last song had been an exception that she hadn't really noticed until now. You never notice till it's too late—it would have been nice to bask in a properly performed piece.

So, for fear of suffering through the next hour of garbled alternative music, Pam took that song change as her cue to wander off.

He was near the wall, checking their tiny patch of pea plants, and she slid up behind him easily. It was funny how in the last month she'd gone from wondering if there'd be enough food in the stash box for tomorrow to wondering whether her gay best friend was in love with her. Obviously, some things never really Change.

"Derek," she said, and her friend nearly fell head-first into the garden. At least he didn't run away. "Derek," she repeated, "we need to talk."

"Nothing good ever comes from that," he muttered, turning to face her.

The blond didn't bother to speak for a moment, eyes locked with her friend's. Maybe it was underhanded to call him out on something like this—he'd only said it when he thought she couldn't hear—and maybe she was asking a question she didn't really want to know the answer to, but Goddess witness she was _curious_.

"Why?" she asked, simply.

The man shut his eyes either against the sun or the question, searching for an answer. "I don't know," he started, then frowned. "Well, that's a lie. I do know. Because I thought you were dying, and I thought maybe it would… keep you here. I didn't know… I didn't know you were only passed out. I don't know anything about medical stuff."

"But is it true?" she pressed, taking an unconscious step forward. _Better not get hopeful, Pam. You may regret it._

"Goddess, what's true anyways?" he shot back. "I'm not even sure what love _is._ I care about you, more than anyone alive. More than anyone dead. I'd do anything if you asked me to. If loves means that I want to spend every moment of my waking life with you, if love means that it doesn't matter when we fight because it's inevitable that we'll end up happy together again, since you know I can't stay mad at you and I think you know me better than I know myself, and… shit, what was I saying?"

"You love me?"

Derek gave her a hard look, one that was filled with something deep and old, and said, "Yeah. I do. Don't ask me how, or why, or when it started 'cause I don't know. I just… do."

And Pam understood, if only because she knew her friend so well. She knew that it had startled him as much as her, that it had crept into his heart with all the stealth of a wildcat stalking through a forest and struck when he was at his weakest. That he was still the same as he'd always been, only more aware.

"Well," she smiled, breaking the mood, "if that's the definition we're going by, then I guess I love you too. Is that alright?"

"It's great," he answered, looking genuinely relieved. "You and me, then?"

"A regular celebration of the Mysteries," the blond woman agreed.

The day was still annoyingly hot, and Gwen was undoubtedly still singing in her pumpkin patch, and the rest of the world was the same as it ever was, but something key had changed. It didn't have a name, and it was nothing in the larger scheme of things—or perhaps, it was everything—still, though, it made things feel right.

"Do you ever get the feeling that everything is unfolding exactly as it should?" Pam mused, sharing a smile with her best friend.

"Yeah," he replied, "As within, so without."

"You're misquoting, you know."

"Yeah," he said again, "but you love me for it."

And, what do you know?

She did.

--

To Devi, the really amazing thing was that he was still _alive_.

"Mr. Watson, you're _how_ old?"

"Seventy-two, miss."

He was _obviously_ not getting any younger, but he didn't look bent or frail like she usually imagined old people. His hair was white, but he was a good six five or so and the lines on his face looked as if he'd only pressed them into his skin in the last months of the Change. He was alone, which was amazing in itself, and he didn't even have that holocaust-thin look that all the new refugees were starting to develop.

"And… not to be rude, but how the hell did you survive this long?"

His slightly gummy eyes took on an affronted squint. "Coffee creamer, mostly. We old men are made of hardier stuff than the youngesters. I was a boy during the depression, a lumberjack afterwards, and a handyman these last few years. I know how to get along."

"You didn't eat anyone, did you?" she asked, not willing to put anything past these new survivors. "We've got a bit of a taboo on that around here."

"I most certainly did not," the old man huffed. "Rabbits, dogs? Yes ma'am, I did have a few of those, but no people."

Devi relaxed then. It was pretty unusual for anyone to actually admit to cannibalism, but you could typically tell from the level of defensiveness. John Watson just sounded like an irritated old man.

"Alright then. Question number two: why should we take you in?"

"I can make things, fix things. Trappin' is a specialty of mine, and I got woodsman in me. Oh," he added, a bit sly, "and I can make moonshine."

"Moonshine?" the image of a can of Mountain Dew popped into the woman's head, though she knew that couldn't be right.

"Whiskey. Corn alcohol. High proof. Prohibition. Ringing any bells yet?"

"Oh," she said, then stopped to think about it. Alcohol was a bona fide disinfectant, and something with a high proof—like moonshine… well, she could keep her soldiers safe indefinitely with a steady supply. They could drink it too, she supposed, though personally she preferred wine if anything at all.

"Do you know anything about wine-making? Billy tells me that there's a vineyard on the other side of the national forest, so we could have a supply of grapes if we're lucky."

"A thing or two," he shrugged, broad shoulders pumping like pistons. "Maybe with some room to experiment."

Devi nodded and gestured to him to follow her. They stood outside what was once Squee Casil's house, and it was just now beginning to get dark, which meant the bonfire would be starting up soon. She wished they'd cut it out now that it was summer, but people take comfort in rituals, and by now it had turned into more of a small campfire anyways, so it was mostly her just wanting to grouse.

"I'll have Billy show you around tonight, if he isn't busy," she offered pushing open the door and leading him into the stripped living room. "In the mean time, you can unpack your stuff on one of the lower levels—I don't care which, just make sure there's actually room for you. I have more important things to worry about than your sleeping arrangements, so I hope you can take care of that by yourself. We had some trouble with one of the new girls a couple days ago… let's just say she's going to be on one end of _somebody's_ cookout."

The old man nodded, though he looked a touch rattled. "How old are you, miss?"

Devi took a moment to think about that. She'd kind of stopped noticing her birthdays after she turned twenty two, and it was more of a gut guess as to how many years had passed since. "Twenty-six," she answered, figuring it was close enough. "_Why_?"

"You're pretty young to be runnin' this show," he pointed out, with a tone of _I'm_ _just sayin'_.

"And you're a little old to be _joining_ this show," she retorted, opening the basement door. "But we all do what we're best at, and I'm pretty damn good at keeping the show on the road."

Watson looked at the walls around him and the last stair below him, and then at her with a sort of appraising look. He was probably taking in the black roots showing in her blue hair, and the thinness of her wrists, and the torn white shirt below her boiled deer-hide vest. Maybe she didn't look too impressive to him, a hungry, battered woman with a simple sword at her hip. In an objective way, she could understand that.

But what he said was, "You take care of these people, don't you?"

"Yes," she replied, nonplussed, "That _is_ generally what a leader does."

"No, no. What I mean is… this is more than you wanting to be queen, isn't it? You actually care about these people. Personally." He frowned seriously, eyeing the corridor they had entered.

"There is no burden heavier than a king's," she paraphrased, then offered a lopsided half-smile. "Tenna tells me I've always been happy to bite off more than I can chew."

She led him down another flight of stairs and then through a hallway, occasionally noting who lived behind what door and where the working rooms were. She smiled as they passed a sign on one of the walls, the one that said "If you can read this, you probably aren't dead yet." Johnny had such a strange sense of humor—it was one of the things she had always liked about him.

"The basement is a hell of a lot bigger than we originally thought," she told the old man, stepping over a cushion that had somehow ended up on the stone floor. "It actually stretches under Johnny's house _and _the houses on either side. There are some _really_ strange things in some of the rooms, so you'd be better off not going anywhere you haven't been invited. Candles are to be conserved wherever possible, matches likewise. Do not under any circumstances have two burning in the same room. Tess drew _foraging mission_ today, otherwise she'd be introducing you to all this."

And she'd have to start changing their methods for that, pretty soon. Drawing lots was a pretty stupid practice with roughly fifty people in the community. Perhaps she'd go by levels? Or maybe she could put someone as kind of a captain in charge of each little group and let them work it out? If only she could rearrange things so that everyone who did one job was on the same level… but you could only fit five or so people on each level without them starting fights, and she had more than five people on any given task force…

"Anyways. So, if you've got domestic questions, Tess is your girl. I'm the one you go to if you've got military questions, or big disputes. From what past recruits tell me, I gather you'll be hearing more about Nny in the next couple days than you can shake a spear at, so why don't I clear up some rumors?"

The old man nodded.

"One: yes, this is Johnny's property. Two: No, _nobody_ knows anything about his past. Someone tries to tell you otherwise, they're lying. Three: yes, he's nuts. You'll learn to appreciate it. Four: No, Squee is _not_ his kid. That's the truth, and I expect you to tell people so. I've gotten really tired of all the gossip around here, and I _know_ that Nny is tired of it."

"So what about you?" Watson asked, with genuine interest. "That's all about him. What about you?"

The first thing she wanted to say was "What _about_ me?", but she discarded that. What was he asking, really? What did he want to hear? She thought, maybe, he was just curious about the woman who would be giving him orders from here out.

"I'm Devi Darington, artist by trade, Tallest by the troupe's choice, and incurably single. I don't have a mysterious past, I don't have any super powers, and I'm no more insane than anyone else here, currently. I have no family to speak of, and I really hate stupid people. And you, Mr. Watson?"

He shrugged. "I'm nobody important."

But _she_ was, wasn't she? That's what he thought, and she could hear it in his tone. And yes, she _was_ important, as long as she was useful--the most important person here. And that was what worried her, late at night—more and more as the days passed.

Suppose that, with the height of her power… she did something wrong?

What then?

TBC


	21. Blood Soaked and Victorious

_The Change_

_Summary_: the world is wicked, the world is cruel. No one knows this better than humanity's emotional sewer system, Johnny C. But floods are a thing of the past, and the world is spiraling out of control. It seems like maybe, this time, the lights have gone out for good.  
_Story:_ a crossover of Johnny the Homicidal maniac, _Dies the Fire_, Invader Zim, and misc. names and places. In which the old world ends, and a new world begins.  
_Leading characters_: Johnny C., Devi D, Todd 'Squee' Castil, and the Zim and Dib duo.  
_Warnings_: Murder, language, references to cannibalism, of course Johnny C. himself, and religious stuff.

* * *

5th

That morning there had been a battle.

Johnny rushed out into the sun at the first sound of the horn, grinning madly and rummaging through his collection of weapons. With all the murderous impulses repressed inside of him, the battlefield was like heaven, a perfect, shuddering release.

Er… the metaphysical implications of that analogy were a bit frightening, even to him.

In any case, they had all fallen into rank quickly enough and strode out onto the field—in this case, a street and the yards on both sides. Devi marched beside him, their footsteps unconsciously in time, and the Troupe followed up behind them. Their eyes met, a glancing convention, and they jumped into motion, the two of them, dashing forward to clear the way for their force through the enemy ranks.

Johnny swung a sickle that he couldn't quite remember choosing, reveling in the looks of horror on his adversaries' faces just before he sliced them off. Hands severed from arms, the curved blade caught wedged into the bone of one man's neck, blood coating his black gloves. The sensations were perfect, gratifying, and he thought—between blows—that it would tide him over for a good time yet.

A woman armed with a kitchen knife launched herself at Devi's unprotected neck, and Johnny caught her mid-step with a sickle through the brain. He didn't think, he just did. There were more sights, more sounds, and the sewer-iron scent of violently felled bodies, but mostly it was all a blur from there on. Well, on until…

As the battle had thinned out, dwindling down to the desperate one-on-one fights of everyone left standing, Johnny had turned just in time to catch sight of Devi finishing off her opponent. The two of them were pulled close together, close enough to kiss, with her red-slick sword pushed clear through the redteeth's chest. She yanked it back and it slid through with sickly ease, the body crumpling without support. And the look on her face…

Feral, lips curled back into something that could have been a grin or a grimace, eyes dilated, and the morning sunlight caught glimmering in her hair and in the blood on her cheeks…

And she had been beautiful.

Now, Johnny stood at just the edge of the gathering, as he did every night. The wall of his house shifted against his back, and the firelight flickered in his eyes. Tonight, his mind was turned away from battles and killing, and even dreams and memories—tonight, he wondered at the most simple, basic emotion in the human arsenal.

Love.

When the doughboys had stood on each of his shoulders like a perverse angel and devil, he had believed that he'd never love a person. He loved killing, he loved fear, and he loved the sweet heavy-soft feeling of justice as it bit into human flesh. But humans, humans were disgusting and disappointing, though there had been one or two exceptions to the rule, and besides, he figured he didn't have the spare emotion to wring out for loving someone.

Fuck, had _he_ been wrong.

Devi had slid into his life a piece at a time, first a pleasant surprise, then a companion, and then something beautiful to be preserved. And in the last year, every so often, he'd… well…

__

"That's love. Or so I've heard."

But he hadn't really _thought_ about it. He knew he cared—hell, _she_ knew he cared—but he'd never bothered to explore the extent to which that carried. And it had occurred to him, in the heat of that last battle as she stood blood soaked and victorious, that he _loved_ her. He'd die for her. He'd kill for her—okay, so that wasn't saying much—and he'd put himself through untold misery to see her happy. In fact, for her, he would give up every selfish notion he'd so long wrapped himself with and dive head-first into making her happy. He kind of already had.

And now, contemplating her silhouette framed by the flickering fire, he knew that he'd continue to do the same as long as they were both still breathing. He really did love her, even more than he'd loved the dream woman. She was _Devi_—how could he not love her? It came as naturally as a heartbeat, as simply as opening his eyes in the morning, as obviously as stabbing a rude sales clerk. For the first time since he came into existence as Nny—three years ago, or perhaps longer—he loved some_body_.

And now Johnny was at a loss. Of all the weapons he had commanded, he knew the least about love; and of all the weapons in the world, he suspected, love was the most dangerous.

Johnny didn't really consider himself a pessimist or an optimist, and particularly not a realist. If you asked him whether a glass was half empty or half full, he'd usually tell you it was the former, sometimes the latter, and occasionally he would tell you that there was no glass at all. Decisions were made with whatever attitude or madness possessed him at the time, lacking any sort of coherent philosophy.

But right then, with the stars spinning overhead and the fire dancing wildly, and Devi's silhouette encasing it all in infinity, he dared to hope that she might—if not now, then one day—love him too. After all, a madman could dream, couldn't he?

--

"I think we're all agreed that the redteeth are getting to be an actual problem," Devi said, addressing the congregation. Johnny had been under the shadows of the house for a good hour now, and she had pretty much given up on including him in the discussion. He'd go with whatever decision she made, anyways.

A chorus of nods and a few "damn right"s from forty-something people answered her. It was odd how they'd gone from ten friends hiding in a basement to fifty people living inside a defensive wall. She still knew all their names, though, which was something she prided herself on.

"In that case," she went on, "we've got two options. One: we pull everyone inside the walls twenty-four-seven, raise up a peace flag and hope they don't storm us."

The expressions around the fire looked mutinous.

"Or two," she added, pleased, "we can take the offensive."

The blue haired woman stopped pacing for a moment, staring into the depths of the writhing flames, mentally playing out her strategy. It could go bad in the blink of an eye, but what choice was there? It was this or feed a starving band of cannibals, and she'd never particularly liked the idea of being on that end of the dinner plate.

"Negro is the force holding them together. The head, and the redteeth are like a snake. You take out the head, and yeah, the body will thrash a bit, but then it's dead. And dead, headless snakes don't bite, if you see what I mean. We mount an attack, and soon. I don't know about you," she paused, glancing at their rapt faces, "but I thought that skirmish this morning was too fucking close for comfort. They're getting better, and they're getting armor, and if we don't stomp this out now it'll just get more and more dangerous. We've already lost three people…"

She hadn't been particularly attached to Jeff, or Sandy, _or_ Dennis, but they had still been _her_ people, and _her_ responsibility, and she'd failed them. It wasn't going to happen again.

"So, if you guys agree, I'm going to start sending scouts into the city to feel out where Negro's base is, and how many people he's still got left. And as soon as we have what we need to know, we mount an attack and bring him down for good. No ghost, no zombie, just one Mexican corpse to feed the petunias. How about that?"

"Excellent, my Tallest," Zim answered her, from the front of the audience, mirroring the general sentiment of the camp. His eyes were wide and his grin was quite savage.

As she looked around at the matching—if less intense—expressions around her, Devi hoped she knew what she was setting free into the world. The Change had _Changed_ people, indeed. Things that had just been stories to them months ago were now as real as the pitiful dinners they survived off of these days. Patriotism, an idea before, was the only way to survive.

Struck by impulse, Devi lifted her hand, suddenly very conscious of the symbol dyed into the leather of her vest and all that it entailed. "For the House!" she said, glaring into every set of eyes with equal fire.

"For the House!" they shouted reply, a call that somehow transformed into a chant of "Tallest Devi!"

And their voices shook her to her core.

--

Edward remembered his last excursion into the city quite well. He remembered the rotting stench and the smoky air, and he particularly remembered the band of redteeth baying for his blood. It wasn't an easy image to forget. But while last time, at least he'd gotten Delano out of it, this time he suspected he'd be lucky to make it out with all his limbs.

It was with this in mind that he lined up outside of the Wall, knuckles white around the straps of his backpack. This was the WWII spy lining up for total emersion, the fighter pilot volunteering for suicide duty. There were five of them, but he knew he'd get the most dangerous bit of town, he just knew it. Not only did he have 'prior experience', but Devi insisted he was the perfect spy.

He snorted. The perfect spy doesn't wind up huddling behind a dumpster because he was too stupid to avoid Main Street. But you didn't argue with Devi, not unless you had something concrete to back it up with—she was made of stone, that woman, and besides, you couldn't just start arguing with the Talle—leader. Who else was going to take charge? Who else _could_?

She was looking at him, and speaking, and he tuned back in just in time to catch her last sentence.

"—peaceful. Do whatever you have to do, just don't get caught. This isn't King Arthur's table, and I don't give a shit about chivalry, got it?"

"Yes Ma'am," they all said. That was what Nny had taught them to do, and damned if they weren't going to do it. Besides, it didn't sound as silly as it once had.

"Now, Trisha's briefed you all, but you should be aware that things have undoubtedly changed. I need reports on where they store their food, where they live, where the military garrison is, and most importantly where _Negro_ lives. Watch your backs, help your friends, and don't piss anybody off. Okay?"

"Yes Ma'am," they repeated.

"Oh," she added, wry, "and Pam says that the Shadow Lord goes with you, if that helps anybody."

As a former Episcopalian, the Wiccan stuff made Edward understandably uneasy—but he knew Pam was only trying to help, and, well, after the Change, who knew? He was just an accountant; numbers, he got. Gods and Goddesses? They were a bit outside of his experience.

They marched off to the gate where Johnny was standing, or rather leaning, flipping a knife into the air and deftly catching it. He looked up at the five scouts as they passed, and he nodded approvingly. He had trained them, after all. And Edward, for one, felt a shot of warmth in his otherwise anxious heart. Approval. Anyone who'd been taught by Nny knew what it was like to crave a nod or a glance from the mysterious, pessimistic man.

And then they were through the gate and into the neighborhood, less than a half-dozen soldiers making their way through the shadows with the sunset at their backs. The silence was painful, but what could you say? "Hey, it's been nice knowing you, hope we don't all die"?

His mind wandered back to his room on the third level, dark and smoky from candlelight, where Delano would be sleeping alone for the next week or so. Maybe forever. The thought made his chest ache—he liked the little blond brat, more than he'd admit, and he was really all that she had now…

The end up the neighborhood brought them to a stretch of road with only gas stations and fast food places to line its edges. There was something particularly poignant about the blackened husk of a McDonald's, cheery plastic M raised high above its sooty walls and melted playground. Bodies lined the ditches at irregular intervals, most decomposed or eaten down to hair and bone and rags of cloth. A few were still freshly rank—surprising that they hadn't been dragged back to town for dinner. But then, maybe Cortez was smarted than they gave him credit for?

After all, a body lying spoiled in a ditch was not a promising meal.

The Wal-Mart was the signal that they'd reach the town proper, and by now the sky overhead was a deep navy blue, pink at the very lowest rim of the world behind them. Wouldn't it be nice if the neon lights on the front of the supermarket would blaze to life, bathing them all in that blue glow he remembered so well from two AM milk runs…

But it was just a hopeless fancy.

The road went on, taking them through an urban neighborhood, where you might expect to see a boy playing a game of late-night catch with his father under the porch-light. But no, though the houses themselves were the same, the air was that of a refugee camp and there were no lights to be seen.

The five of them gathered silently at the junction where their road became a highway through the heart of the city, under the moon shadow of an abandoned bank. Edward couldn't meet their eyes. It was like the last night of a condemned man, even though it was in no way guaranteed that any of them would die. The anxiety was there nonetheless, and you could hear it in his voice as he said, "I'll take north with Zeke and Rob, you two go south. We'll split up at some point, and we'll meet up… five days from now, at rendezvous. Anyone who gets into trouble should hide in the bank, or head back to the House."

There really was no way to end that, so he just shouldered his pack and walked away, vaguely aware of his two teammates trailing behind. His problem was that unlike most people, who never _really_ believed they could get hurt, Edward had always had an ultra-real sense of danger. In fact, some people would call it paranoia.

Devi told him that was part of the reason he made such a good scout. Nothing was more dangerous than an overconfident spy.

The sun was long gone by now, replaced by pinpricks of starlight above his head, vast and in multitude too great for imagining. They were calming, a kind of ethereal hand on his shoulder, reminding him that he was one of the good guys, and the good guys always win. He knew it wasn't true, but it did make him feel better.

They split up when they hit downtown, Edward aiming for the courthouse. He had this feeling…

There was a niche over the first floor of one building, where the second floor stopped short a few feet from the edge, and a tree grew right next to it. Edward scaled the tree, falling twice, and maneuvered himself onto the ledge. The opposite corner was connected to the second floor on two sides, and if he pushed himself far enough into it, he was virtually invisible from the street. There he slept, using his jacket for a pillow.

He awoke when the sun was up, early in the morning by the looks of it. Maybe seven. The first thing he did was check his bow, searching its rough surface for any cracks or splinterings. The second thing he did was check his reflection in the black glass of the office building, pleased with the stubble on his chin and the greasy look of his hair. Like this, he could pass for a particularly well-kempt citizen. Although…

Lately, the various members of the Troupe had begun taking more obvious cues from Johnny and Devi. The hairstyle Johnny sported had taken particularly with the men of the group: no sides, no back; Devi's cut had taken likewise with the women: shaved below the ears and on the back, but neck length above that point. His own was a bit of a blending—cut skin-close at ear level, but only perhaps three inches long above. He was worried that it might give him away, being something of a trademark… but then, other people had similar hair cuts, didn't they? He could remember at least one person before the Change…

Oh, for example, Tess had it too. But then, people like her hadn't survived long in the city… they tended to find their way into the Troupe or die, somewhere along the way.

Edward spent the next hour patiently watching the early risers stumble down the streets, noting their dress and attitude, which ones avoided which others, their weapons and directions. When the one or two dressed in black walked down the street, anyone coming or going pressed up against the wall until they had passed. They tended to carry spears or hip-knives, while the regular citizens carried trowels or nothing at all.

Hypothesis: Negro was gathering a regular fighting force—black-themed, of course—who were developing into a sort of Knight-class, and the rest of the people were serf-type farmers. They did all seem to be walking in the same direction, which indicated that there was a single destination. A farming plot, perhaps? Maybe in the park?

The city stank, too. It reminded him of things he'd read about the French palaces pre-revolution. Courtly gentlemen rank with sweat and pissing in the corners of ornately furnished rooms. Except there were no powdered wigs or silk getups. Just the sweat and piss and shit.

He knew someone who'd absolutely _loose_ it around here.

If he wanted to be discrete, he'd have to model himself after the peasant class. They only seemed to be wearing normal clothes, albeit in a state sorry enough to indicate they were one of maybe two sets in the closet. His own undershirt was probably ratty enough to service, and the thick weight of the armor vest would have adjusted his smell in no time with this weather…

He rolled his knife inside his vest, and the vest inside his jacket, and left the bundle in the hidden corner of the roof. Now, if he could just shimmy down the tree without busting his ass…

Mostly, the ex-accountant kept hidden, observing the people he intended to imitate, but when cover was scarce he adopted the same stoop-shouldered manner and shuffled down the street until whoever it was had passed. This was a bit of a gamble, honestly—he should have stayed put for the day, or at least kept out of sight. But that gut feeling was telling him it was a gamble worth risking, and his intuition had always served him well before.

And it _was_ the park after all.

Behind a tree, Edward took a few moments to absorb the panorama. Scores of citizens, working silently under the eagle eyed scrutiny of overseers, who broke the empty air only with harsh breaths and the occasional shout of pain. A few seemed to be giving directions, and wandered between the rows with a sort of haughty air—probably the ones who already had an idea of how to farm before the Change. He could probably pass as one of them, provided there was a large enough reservoir to lose himself in… did he dare take the chance? Wouldn't it be better to slide into place with the unskilled laborers? But then, that would undoubtedly limit his freedom…

Edward squared his shoulders, put on his best _Oh yeah?_ face, and sent a quick prayer up to whoever was listening.

__

Please let this work…

TBC


	22. We Are Legends

_The Change_

_Summary_: the world is wicked, the world is cruel. No one knows this better than humanity's emotional sewer system, Johnny C. But floods are a thing of the past, and the world is spiraling out of control. It seems like maybe, this time, the lights have gone out for good.  
_Story:_ a crossover of Johnny the Homicidal maniac, _Dies the Fire_, Invader Zim, and misc. names and places. In which the old world ends, and a new world begins.  
_Leading characters_: Johnny C., Devi D, Todd 'Squee' Castil, and the Zim and Dib duo.  
_Warnings_: Murder, language, references to cannibalism, of course Johnny C. himself, and religious stuff.

* * *

8th

The dream came differently tonight.

Usually it was abrupt, yanking him here and there with all the care of a child toting her rag-doll around the house. At first he had thought it was just that his subconscious had severe attention deficit disorder, bouncing back and forth with a sugar-hyped lack of continuity… But now he was being to wonder if there wasn't some kind of Will involved, dragging him from memory to memory in a rush to show him as much as it could with what small window time it was given. Clearly, it had little comprehension of the anxiety it put him through every night.

And it _was _every night, now. It was possible that he was only sleeping so much because of his active days lately, his body exacting more and more recovery time to meet the new demands. After all, what had he done before the Change except sit in front of the TV and journey out into the city for the odd murder? A pastime that required little effort on his part—certainly it left him more mentally tired than physically.

But Johnny, even on his sane days, was a paranoid wreck, and he was almost certain that there was more to it than that. Someone, Someone with an agenda, was dragging him into a nightly outing, desperate to cram as much nonsense into his brain as the five hours or less of grudging sleep would allow. They were dragging him back and forth with unbreakable determination, and he was inclined to follow, if only so that nothing worse happened. Something strong enough to manipulate your dreams was Something you didn't want to piss off. What was hard to believe about that? He'd seen the afterlife himself, and he was _immortal_ for the love of fuck. There was nothing surprising about another brand of interference—annoying, yes, but not surprising.

Tonight it was different, though, that pull like the gentle hand of a mother. He could feel it willing him to rise from his bed and go as far as he could, with the promise that he would be carried when his strength finally failed.

The blackness of unconsciousness—wholly unlike the waking world's black—faded into color as if it were mist rolling away into the air. Johnny, when he was aware enough to realize he was Johnny, found himself sitting on a hill, surrounded by twilight and ghostly fog, the deep green of the grass and far away forest still just visible through the falling darkness. A moor, he knew that's what it was. It was unfamiliar, but comforting—and uncomfortable in its alien comfort. A whimsical glance downward told him he was wearing his current favorite shirt, with the striped sleeves and the box proclaiming 'THE SHADOW KNOWS'.

"I thought it was fitting," a soft voice told him, a woman's voice that was tender and ageless. Johnny whirled and lost his balance on the fog-softened earth, slipping onto his stomach. Unfortunate: now his back was exposed, and his neck, and it would take him crucial seconds to reach a stand. One of the two longest locks of hair in his bangs slipped over his eye, and he blew it away impatiently. Obscured vision was a disadvantage he might not be able to afford.

The woman smiled, amusement twinkling in her blue eyes. Her dress and head scarf reminded him vaguely of someone... blue also, hiding all but a strand of dark brown hair in its cotton folds. Yes, he knew her from somewhere...

"Who are you?" he demanded, distrustful. He didn't know many people—or he hadn't before the Change—but with very few exceptions, everyone he had met was some variation of cruel or stupid. She didn't look stupid at all, so that left cruel, however kind her face was.

"I am your mother," she answered, a small smile on her lips.

"My... what?"

The smile spread. "Not just _your_ mother, but _the _mother. I am... how shall I put it... Mother-of-All. And you, Nny, are my child."

"What the _hell_ is that supposed to mean?"

She shook her head, undaunted. Her absolute compassion rolled over the moor in waves, so forgiving that it actually made Johnny feel a bit guilty. It was infinitely tender, full of that confidence and absolute _knowing_that children assumedly felt from their parents. It demanded and inspired awe and love, and...

"It means exactly what it means," she responded, smiling gently. "Nny, you are one of your mother's favorites, if a mother can have favorites amongst her children. And favor of that sort comes at a high price, which you have always payed. You are a good son, but the world has not been kind to you—nor have you been kind to the world."

Johnny pulled himself slowly off the ground, rising unsteadily to his feet. Whoever this woman was, she wasn't dangerous. He could tell. Or, at least, she wasn't dangerous in a malevolent way, or in a way that he could defend himself from.

"So why are you here?" he demanded, but his tone a touch softer this time.

"You asked a question," she replied, timeless eyes boring into his, "and you will not rest until you have the answer. So, I am here. To tell you what I can, and put your mind to ease. Your people have need of you, Nny, and you cannot lead them when you live only in your mind."

"Devi's the boss," he protested, "not me."

She shook her head again. "Your cross is of a different sort, and equally important. Every whole is but two halves, each side different as day and night, and just as inexorably bound. As above, so below."

Johnny glanced up at the sky, grey from the thick mist and heavy with the scent of green dampness. He filled his lungs with it, taking comfort in the scent of life and a world untouched by man. Finally, he said, "The answers?"

"Walk with me," she responded, offering him a milky white hand. His own hands were bound by black leather, and he was fairly certain that even if they weren't, the woman's flesh would steal nothing from his soul. She was not Empty, that was for sure, and she seemed nice enough.... He put his hand in hers.

"I know that you have long wondered whether your dreams are real or not," the blue-clad woman told him, as she led him down the hill and into an opalescent pocket of mist. "And you have wondered how much of the world you see is actually there. There is no absolute answer to those questions, because everyone sees the world a little differently. When I look down at the world, my vision is like no other. In truth, anything you remember is real, whether others or no experienced it. Your dreams, Nny, are more real than those of anyone else."

"Uh-huh," he grunted, skeptical.

"Your little trip to Heaven and Hell, for example," she continued, "Was just as real as that moment on the battlefield when you realized that you loved Devi. We show you only as much as you can understand, teach you only as much as you can learn. Do you remember what you saw?"

"...Yes, mostly."

"You saw Heaven and Hell," she explained, "because you understood Heaven and Hell. 'A heaven for me and a hell for you', wasn't it?"

The murderer nodded.

"And you saw God, and you saw the Devil, because all you knew of the Powers were those caricatures of a distanced God and his sneaky nemesis. Cruelty and distaste you understood, so this is the Aspect you found. You saw men free from want, which was your own professed Heaven, and life without the hope of relief, which was your Hell. Everything you saw was true, but it was not _all_ that is true."

"What?"

The timeless woman raised a single brow at him, the expression disconcertingly Spock-esque. "You may find this hard to believe, Nny, but there are things in the universe beyond your comprehension—and still more that you currently refuse to comprehend. The universe is built in many dimensions besides your own, but you cannot _see _them, though they are all very real. So humans are taught with allegories and parables, shown masks instead of faces, led by avatars instead of Gods. Mankind cannot withstand the Truth in all its Glory, so, we give you truthful lies."

The fog was thick here, so much so that he could barely make out the woman's face, and couldn't tell if she was smirking or not. He didn't much like the idea of being lied to, or coddled, even if it was 'necessary'.

"Okay, I'll play along. If the Devil wasn't the real Devil and God wasn't the real God, and Heaven and Hell were just for me, then _what, _pray tell, was the System?"

The lady's face hardened, blue eyes flickering with regret and sadness. She pulled him up to the top of the next hill and looked out over the shimmering silver and green land, peaks of hills like little islands in a sea of time. "The System is nothingness. Corruption. A thing that knows only taint and decay, though once it was full and beautiful, as all things must once have been. It is the side that wishes an end. It is not the Devil, for it has no need to barter for men's souls, nor is it God, for it is the very stuff of despair and nothingness. It is much more than that, but again, beyond your comprehension."

"Right... and it _owned_ me? This... this _thing_ owned me?"

"In a way, yes. The System seeks to corrupt even as it cleanses, unaware that it contradicts itself in its very existence. There was a time... but no, eons have passed. It likes little better than to steal my children away, and you, Nny, are indeed one amongst my favored. The System owned you from the moment you turned your back on me... And you have been mine since the house became the House, and the troupe became the Troupe."

Johnny kicked at a patch of grass, annoyed. "_You're always a slave to something_," he quoted.

"No," the woman said, laying a hand on his shoulder, "You are my child. The System would have you as slaves, but I would have you as willing friends. There is always a choice, Nny, and of course consequences with those choices."

"So you're what?" he went on, "A goddess? An angel?"

"I'm the Mother," she replied, eyes sparkling again, "Queen of Heaven, if you like. And I came here as the only Queen-Mother you know. Take a good look, don't you recognize me?"

Well, there were the blue eyes and the brown hair, and the head scarf... that tiny smile, the strange dress...

Oh.

Once, as he had made his way through an alien city, searching for detachment and enlightenment, he had stumbled into an empty church on an empty hill. A man-sized crucifix had hung from the ceiling, and in the stained glass there had been a woman in blue, with a tiny smile and a babe in arms... and he sat in the pews until the sun went down, eyes on hers. Who was she? How could she look so perfectly at ease? Was that, he had asked himself, how mothers were supposed to look? He couldn't remember his own, and the itch to understand gnawed at him...

The lady winked at him. "See? Parables and dreams, and caricatures and legends. So, have I answered your questions?"

"I can't even remember what my questions were," the madman murmured, shrugging. No wait, there _was_ something. "How come I'm only getting the lecture _now?_ I mean, I've been asking for a long time, and the paperwork is little late to file."

"The Change left holes in the fabric of reality," she sighed, "which had been filled in over the centuries. In March sixteenth of nineteen-ninety-eight, Earth _had_ no God—only our shadows and stories. Now, we walk once more. Does that make sense?"

A raven flew past Johnny's head, an inky shadow against the fading grey mist, and wheeled. It caught his eye, black looking into black, with a knowing glance that seemed to say, "Yes, you know me." Two birds of the battlefield...

"I guess so. But why me? You seem nice enough, and I've done some really terrible things. I mean, I was…am… bat-shit _crazy_, and not very nice either."

The lady held out one hand, sleeve falling back from her pale wrist, and the raven lighted on her fingers. "_No_ one is beyond redemption, though the System would have you think that. And as a mother loves her children no matter what ill they may do, so I love all mankind despite their evil deeds."

"Really?" he pushed. The concept was strange and new, but he desperately wanted it to be true. It would be so nice to think that there was someone out there who loved him even when he screwed up, that he could count on someone to be there with him, even if they couldn't _do_ anything. Maybe that was why people were so obstinately fond of religion... Though all he really knew about religion was what he'd picked up from door-to-door Mormons and televangelists, and... that one guy...

"Yes, really. After all, what do you think the Change was?"

Johnny shook his head, confused.

"Let me put it another way. Suppose you found an infant… say, Devi's daughter, choking on a toy she had been playing with. What would you do?"

"Take the toy away," he replied automatically.

"Would you give it back?"

"No, probably not. She couldn't be trusted with it, obviously."

"Would you explain?"

"How? Babies don't understand that kind of thing. She'd have to figure it out on her own, I guess."

The lady smiled more broadly. "Exactly."

She flicked her hand and the raven took off, disappearing into the night. Johnny could see the moon, caught behind a cloud, full and lighting everything silvery-white.

"And why _here_?" he asked her, peering through the fog.

"You have fond memories of this place," the lady said, somehow still blue even as the world around her had faded to black and grey.

"Do you want to explain that too?"

With a little laugh, she pulled him towards the edge of the woods, ignoring his question. There was a light flickering somewhere in the trees, up ahead of them, and she pulled him surely towards it. On and on they walked, for ten minutes or an eternity, until Johnny was too tired to follow any longer and collapsed to his knees. Gently, the Lady slid one arm under his legs, another behind his shoulders, and lifted him—lifted him as if he was a baby, or a sheaf of wheat. She carried him deeper into the forest, until the light transformed into a campfire.

Around the fire was a mass of faces, more faces than he would have imagined could fit in this little clearing. The firelight lit them all a flickering copper, and he recognized some, thought he might recognize others. There was Pam and Tess and Derek, and Tenna and Edward and Trisha, and Squee, looking at once like the small boy he had first met and a proud, grown man.

Alone now, he searched the crowd for one face, the face he always sought, and found her across the fire, green eyes turned golden by the flames. She smiled at him, a tiny smile, and nodded to the empty seat beside her. As he circled the pit, the sea of people seemed to shift around him—they were few, and many, and old and young, and they all knew him.

"Devi," he started, taking a seat, "Devi, who are all these people?"

"They are our children," she replied, gesturing to the small girl in her lap, who had not been there a moment before. "All of them."

And then he looked more closely at her familiar face, at the tiny smile and the beauty mark below her eye, and the way that galaxies seemed to swirl behind her pupils.

"You aren't Devi, are you?" he said, somehow not surprised.

"No," answered the woman he loved, "but Devi _is_ me. We are legends, you and I, and you are not merely Johnny in the same way that I am not merely Devi."

The baby girl was a woman now, and a mother, and an old lady withered with age. And while everyone around them shifted and changed, he and Devi remained the same, untouched by time.

"Like yin and yang, like bookends, like lock and key—there are always two, and always thousands."

He thought, to himself, that Devi was perhaps that raven who had Seen him before, both of them eternal companions on the battlefield. There was an old story about the two, waiting on the tip of his tongue and just out of reach. Wisdom, and war, and a one-eyed God...

"Will I remember this tomorrow?" he demanded, suddenly worried.

"If you wish to," Devi-who-was-not-Devi replied. "All of your questions will be answered, Johnny. This is only the first half."

And then the world lost coherency, edges blending together and color mixing until there was nothing at all, and everything contained within it.

Johnny awoke.

--

_Dear Die-ary,_

_What's left to say at this point? God, I miss my walkman. I don't understand anything, but I'm beginning to get an idea. Allegories, isn't that the word for it? When something is two things at once?_

_I'm still waiting for those answers, lady._

_June 10th, 1998_

_--_

It was only a matter of time before _they_ launched a proper attack.

Johnny was sure of it, and Devi was sure of it, but neither of them could do more than twiddle their thumbs until the spies came back, preferably in one piece. He wasn't used to being nervous, and it felt like a hundred mosquitoes buzzing around his head—like every inch of his skin was clinging obnoxiously to his bones and just _begging_ to be ripped off, itching annoyance surrounding him on every side.

It was enough to drive you crazy. Or, crazi_er_.

So Johnny did what he always did when he felt particularly murderous: he thought of Devi, and killing people. Not necissarily in that order.

There was a skirmish yesterday. It was lovely, really, all those terrified faces and bursting body cavities. He had a sword now, that was Trisha's doing, and he'd handed off his old rusty saber to one of his students—the redheaded one. She showed promise. So he'd decided to take the new blade for a spin, see how much mojo the alien kid worked into that rune—how much _spring_ was left in that slice of metal that was once a leaf spring.

It was a nice sword, by his count. Well balanced, properly spaced hilt, mean cutting edge… just right for a massacre or a master's duel. He'd rushed into battle happily, yesterday afternoon, whirling this way and that, subtly working rear guard for Devi. He was pretty sure she wouldn't like that, him worrying about her, so it was always on the down low, so to speak. She could take care of herself, he knew that, but it didn't mean he couldn't sort of covertly back her up. After all, that's what you do for the people you care about; you watch their backs.

He caught one particularly troublesome redteeth in the thigh, and disengaging the sword from his leg bone had proved a bit taxing. A good left backswing had brought it safely out, though, and it also spun him in a full one-eighty. He never did have great balance.

The spin brought him back to back with Devi, in the middle of the enemy force. Black cloth was like a sea around them, and the countless grinning faces blurred into a layer of pinks and browns. Johnny had felt the steel in his hands, seen the concrete-gray sky stretching above them, almost close enough to touch, felt Devi's back against his own…

That moment of silent communion, the beautiful tension before the release, the two of them caught coiled like springs and captured like that for all eternity—immortal in a single moment as they held mortality in their fists…

And struck.

It was beautiful, really. Once he'd thought that killing the one you loved was the perfect expression of adoration—now he knew that it was killing side by side with them, one body with many flashing hands, perfectly in time—that was the _true _pinnacle of love. Of course, he couldn't imagine how this sort of situation would be possible without the Change's topsy-turvy morals, but that didn't detract from the beauty of what was here and _now_.

So they were here at the fireside—a strange sensation after the last dream—waiting for their intelligence agents with all the tenseness of a southern Floridian at the peak of the Cuban Missile Crisis. And Vatusia was singing again, some Beatles song, and that little girl with the pumpkin-shaped face was pulling out her violin…

After a day of real physical labor, it was good to rest. Devi had decided that all five houses needed to be joined together, and the process was going slowly but surely… very slowly. Foundations had to be laid, and materials found, and Derek was looking just a little bit stressed…

Johnny looked around the blaze, for the first time in a long time.

"_There's a shadow hanging over me…"_

When had they gotten so big? Fifty adults now, refugees, and their children dashing about… They made a loose ring around the fire pit, the children closest to the center and the adults here and there, gold light in eyes of every shape and color, some haunted, some exalted, some guarded, as Vatusia's song wound between their arms and hearts. How did Devi feel to be responsible for all these people? Did she realize how big that was, or did she even stop to think about it?

"_Oh, yesterday came suddenly…"_

Maybe he'd ask her, someday.

TBC


	23. One Contemporary Conquistador

_The Change_

_Summary_: the world is wicked, the world is cruel. No one knows this better than humanity's emotional sewer system, Johnny C. But floods are a thing of the past, and the world is spiraling out of control. It seems like maybe, this time, the lights have gone out for good.  
_Story:_ a crossover of Johnny the Homicidal maniac, _Dies the Fire_, Invader Zim, and misc. names and places. In which the old world ends, and a new world begins.  
_Leading characters_: Johnny C., Devi D, Todd 'Squee' Castil, and the Zim and Dib duo.  
_Warnings_: Murder, language, references to cannibalism, of course Johnny C. himself, and religious stuff.

I'm almost out of cushion here, so I think I'll be going to one update every two weeks. That way we can keep things on a regular basis instead of jumping all over the place like _Eternity in a Pickle Jar_ does. I know ya'll don't want that.

* * *

13th

"Well I can't just stay in the House my whole life!"

"You know," Tenna said, a wry smile on her lips, "I never thought I'd hear you say _that_."

"Fuck you," the blue haired woman replied, a grudging smile on her lips too.

They sat on a grassy patch of hill, leaning against a block of blue-gray stone maybe three feet high. One side was smooth and cool despite the early summer heat, and the other was warm, engraved with a name and two dates. Devi pulled a leaf of grass and tore it into tiny bits.

"Still," the black woman went on, "did _he_ have to come along?"

Johnny glanced over at them from the top of the tombstone where he was perched, glaring.

"—I mean, shouldn't he be, like, protecting them? You know, since you aren't there."

"They'll be fine," Devi replied—although, she herself was thinking the same thing. People need a leader to rally to, and Johnny was the only other person who could fill that armor, so to speak. But Tess was still home, and you couldn't stop Johnny if he wanted to get out. You couldn't stop him _period_.

Devi leant her head back against the gravestone, eyes tracking the fluffy white clouds in the bright blue sky, trying not to blind herself by staring at the ball of ultraviolet fire floating near them. It was hard to remember that she was on a mission, and not just enjoying an afternoon off with her friends. The cemetery always _had_ been high on her list of Nice Places to Go for an Afternoon. Now, at night? That was another story.

But she was here for a reason, on Official Capacity as Tallest and not as an artist with the afternoon off. She tried not to think too hard about that, because there was currently a half-painted canvas back home with her name on it. She had to be here, because this was the agreed rendezvous point and she wasn't going to trust something this crucial to anyone else. They'd already rigged some hiding space, if her spies came back with a pursuing tail.

Now, they waited.

"How were the water supplies when we left?" Devi asked, idly.

"One jug," Tenna answered, punctuating it with a shrill SQUEAK from her little doll. "Trisha and Zim were complaining about needing their own supply, so Tess sent out a bigger collecting party this time."

"Foraging stores?"

"Between the roots and the acorns, we're on par."

"I'll hate to see the day we're reduced to eating acorns. Canned goods?"

"Low, but no one's been to town for weeks, so no surprise."

"Vitamins?"

_Squeak_

"That bad?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Berries, then?"

"Season's about to end, but we're good for now."

"Sheep?"

"Still trying to kill themselves."

"Stupid fluffy morons. Armor?"

From atop a tombstone: "Suitable, if you're leaving the squeamish men at home."

"And women!"

"…And women."

"Tampons?"

"Low."

A shudder from Nny's direction.

They went on like that for a while—it was handy to have your quartermaster and your armsman-slash-drill sergeant along if you wanted to check status. Johnny, of course, was always pushing for more training hours, as if two a day wasn't enough, and Tenna was always pushing for more scavenging missions. Before, Devi had only rolled her eyes, but now with the planting season over, maybe it was time to put some more thought into it…

She was halfway through a discussion of the new building materials when Johnny's head snapped to the left, and she immediately shut up. He leapt down from the stone with cat gracefulness, catching the knife he'd been flipping in midair, and gestured to the woods. He spun a hand and gestured at their hiding place. _Someone's coming._

Devi reached for the sword at her hip, drawing it out slowly so that the metal wouldn't rasp against its sheath. Tenna's coffee complexion looked a touch more milky than normal, and Johnny looked trigger-happy, as usual.

Edward—thank god, _Edward_—came bursting through the bushes, followed by another of his teammates. Devi jumped to her feet and beckoned her spies towards the grave, quickly assessing their states. Edward looked bruised and battered, but Francis only looked worn, exhaustion circling his slanted eyes. Where were the others?

Handing the weaponless Edward a knife, Devi scanned the forest for signs of oncoming forces. A large unit might run animals ahead of it, and a smaller one might still be audible. Nothing seemed to move.

"Were you followed?" Johnny demanded, fingers twitching on the hilt of his own sword.

Edward nodded, mouthing 'yeah' with wheezing breaths.

A look passed between the three founders, and Tenna took the spies' hands, pulling them towards an old grave, branches from a downed tree obscuring all but the tip of the marker. Devi lifted the nearest bough and the whole mass tilted with it, revealing an empty space about five feet deep, with typical grave length and width. They'd been here the past two days, hollowing the thing out.

They slid inside, everyone but Nny severely cramped—although he'd probably complain twice as loudly as any of them, the selfish lunatic. Minutes stretched, and Devi began to count seconds to keep herself calm. She was only mildly claustrophobic, but this was _literally_ buried alive.

Every so often footsteps would wander close enough to be heard, but no one would actually check under the branches, she was sure of it. Hiding in a grave? Please, who would be stupid enough?

She lost count after fifteen minutes, by which time she hadn't heard anything for a while. In retrospect, they should have checked for footprints around the graveyard, made sure that no one would know they'd been there. But, hindsight is twenty-twenty and no one had found them yet, so maybe they _hadn't_ left anything….

They waited another five minutes to be safe, by which point Devi's breathing was growing slightly erratic. She hit _300 Mississippi_ and pulled her legs into a crouch, reaching up and moving the branches just enough to get a look around. The air that broke across her face was cool, and she breathed great gulps of it, only just realizing how hot it was in that grave.

"I think we're alone," she said in a low voice, avoiding the sibilants of a whisper that would carry twice as far.

She made to crawl out and check the coast herself, but Johnny caught her arm and pulled her back, climbing through the branches instead. That was actually… rather thoughtful. Nobody could pull one over on Johnny, but she was fair game if she jumped out into the open like she'd planned.

The madman's head popped under the boughs and said, "it's fine."

They all climbed out, breathing deeply and wiping sweat from their faces. Now that everyone was safe, there was no time to lose.

"Report," Devi ordered, shaking the twitchy feeling of gradual onset claustrophobia.

"I went downtown," Edward began, stepping forward, "and found their fields located in the park. I immersed myself in the ranks of _Farming_ _Instructors_—'Bitchers', to the peons—and spent the last five days learning about their system. I befriended one of the _Local Guard_—'Crackers', if you can believe it—and learned that Negro is training a proper militia separate from the rest of the citizens. There are two levels of the guard: local and city."

Devi held up one finger, absorbing the information. So, Negro was smarter than she'd first given him credit for. She dropped the finger.

"The local guard is the base force, and they mostly just watch the farmers and the peons to make sure no one revolts or does anything stupid. The city guard is the elite, the actual _soldiers_, and that's the group that's going to take us down if we don't make a preemptive strike. Negro has a woman training the city guard, her name is… is… shit, I forget. But she was part of this society that recreated the Middle Ages, and she knows how to actually _sword fight_. I mean, what Nny's taught us is a good technique, but it's just not in the same class as this woman. No offense."

The insomniac growled in the back of his throat and made a dismissive gesture. He rather _disliked_ being outclassed.

"They're only just learning the moves, so it'll be a long while before they have the benefit of superior training, but now it's going to be a lot more like a fair fight, and as Nny always says, fair fights are for losers. I saw them dispatch a unit, which I assume was sent to fight against us, right?"

"Yesterday?" Devi asked, and when he nodded she answered, "Yeah, they were fighting against us."

"Well, the groups you've been fighting come from the local guard—they aren't trained, per say, but they _are_ armed and bloated on their own ego. I estimate that the city guard will be prepped enough to fight us in two weeks, one if Negro gets itchy and doubles the numbers with some peon cannon-fodder. He's eager to drop his numbers, since the citizens have eaten up most of their stores and they're mostly subsisting on anybody who wanders into town—you know, I think the only reason we haven't been overrun yet is because they're eating all the refugees."

A good theory, actually. There were a lot of people in Northern California… especially around San Francisco… and they had yet to really get a flood of them. She'd seen some of the eternal fires burning in the nearest cities, but even that couldn't totally account for the lack of escapees. Shit, why hadn't she thought about that before? The city was acting as a buffer!

"—and I was never able to get away from the bitchers," Edward was saying, "so I couldn't do any reconnaissance on Negro himself… Marion, you got something, right?"

The half-Asian nodded. "His palace is located inside of the City Hall. He sleeps and works there, leaving every other day to survey the troops, but he never visits the farmers. Lenin is usually wherever the City Guard is. He may be Negro's right hand, but there's definitely some tension there. I'm not sure this is relevant, but there's some racial tension too—Negro tends to pass over the white guys for promotions, you know, and they've taken to using Spanish all the fucking time, just to piss people off. He's guarded by a twenty man unit during the day, thirty or more at night, depending on how paranoid he's feeling. I get the feeling Armando Cortez is a man who trusts no one."

Tenna shook her head. "That's _more_ dangerous than trusting anybody who walks through. He oughta know better."

"He's smart," Devi mused, "but he hasn't got experience in the top tiers. The man is making it up as he goes—and the best part is he thinks he's doing a great job. We can use that against him, I think."

The woman with the once-bright blue hair looked back at the city, contemplative. The Black Man and his Red-Teeth were going down, if she had anything to say about it. But the question was, how?

"Come on," she sighed, "Let's get back to the House. Ivan came home early, and the others will find us if they're still alive. Right now, I need a proper intelligence report."

It was going to be a long day.

--

Somewhere in the city, forces were gathering. Children huddled in their rooms, clothes smelling of smoke and sweat. Adults labored glassy eyes under the yolks their distant ancestors had once died to throw off. Lords who had once been garbage-men and policemen and state workers laughed and cracked whips that had once belonged in museum displays.

Disease reared its black head. Starvation began at the edges and slowly but surely worked its way inward. Spirits broke. Men were murdered indiscriminately.

And one contemporary conquistador smiled.

--

"_You don't have to call me darlin', darling…_

_You never even call me by my name…"_

Devi stepped out of the House quietly, unseen for once in the darkness. She could feel her hands shaking slightly, and she longed for a cup of coffee or a proper night's sleep—neither of which she would be getting. Somewhere behind her Johnny was sharpening the nicks out of his sword and Tess was examining plans for the last time, and somewhere ahead of her Vatusia was singing again, surrounded by day-weary people. No bonfire tonight, it was far too hot. So instead, the night was lit silvery blue, slight, the kind of light that made a woman wonder what was out there in the darkening world…

Well, she knew a little of it. And that little bit was the bit she was up almost seventeen hours straight for, that had her shivering in the darkness, feeling like the world rested on her shouders.

Her "council"—which now included Edward and Marion for the occasion—had been up almost as long as she, and none of them were happy about it, except maybe Johnny who seemed pleased as punch to stay awake for as long as his body would let him. Followed inevitably by total collapse, but hey, that was his tantrum to deal with. She felt her expression soften for a moment.

But there was a job to be done.

Abandoning her moment of quiet, Devi made her way to the center of the circle and tapped Vatusia on the shoulder. The older woman flinched a bit—she still clearly remembered their little dispute months ago—and cut herself off mid-note. That was easier than interrupting when they decided to recite poetry—she _still_ wasn't sure when that had caught on. It must have started when she was away scouting.

"Hey guys," she started, not feeling as confident as usual. Stupid sleep, stupid plans… "I've got some big news tonight."

She glanced around at the multitude, a little dizzy at their number. The children looked at her with rapt awe—well then, that's where Zim had been spending his days—and the adults with some wariness, some hopeless respect. God, it was scary being an idol. She reminded herself desperately that it was only the newest recruits who looked at her with that thoughtless devotion.

"You know that I sent out a scouting party last week," she started, gesturing to the three surviving surveyors, wondering not for the first time what had happened to her other two. "Well, they're back. They spent the last few days risking their lives as undercover agents, hiding with the redteeth, living like they do. Edward joined the ranks of farming consultants, daring to sabotage what he could, learning the new order inside and out. Marion inserted himself into the position of a servant at the palace—yes, the bastard has a _palace_. And he eats like a king to match."

A thick layer of muttering spread over the crowd, scowls covering the faces of Devi's people. The memory of their pathetic dinner hung over the circle, stew from meat of questionable origins and some roots, and the last real crop of the summer's blackberries. Someone had broken down at lunch today, raving about cheeseburgers and the dinners of a distant four months ago, crying out for french-fries and pizza, and salads with salad dressing, and bananas, and all the food that could make a person full and happy. Music fed a person's soul, but the stomach went without these days.

"Yes. These two have seen the city from the inside," she went on, "seen all the inequality and brainwashing. You wouldn't _believe_ some of this shit. They've got people in there getting on less food than us, working like machines. White people degraded into _animals_ for… for having lighter _skin_. They've got a whole class of lords, ordering people around like it was the Middle Ages, raping and doing whatever the fuck they please… God damn, we used to be Americans, didn't we? Maybe America is a thing of the past, but we're still Americans, all of us. I believe that everybody's got the same basic rights, and that includes the cogs in Negro's machine. Nobody's got the right to yolk anybody else up to a plow and whip them."

Her congregation was diverse—everything from Asians to blacks to white protestant stock—and she looked into eyes of every shape and color, willing them to feel the same indignation as she. For more than just one reason…

"You want to know what can go wrong in the world? What kind of hell humanity is capable of? All you've got to do is look at that city. Go ask Marion, or Edward. They'll tell you about all the shit they saw, if you ask. It's a madhouse in there."

More of madhouse than this house, even.

"And, as if that weren't enough," she went on, pacing now, "these fuckers want to get their dirty hands on _our_ land. We carved this spot out of the suburbs with our own sweat and blood, we've worked hard for this, and they want to waltz in and kill us all, if not eat us. Well, we aren't standing for that, are we? We've worked out a plan, we've got an idea now…"

She gestured to Derek, who slid around the circle and into her reach.

"Our numbers are… low. We're strong, but we're few. There's no way we'll survive if we sit around with our thumbs in our collective ass, waiting for the redteeth to make a move. But…" Devi paused, eyes shut against the whiteness of the sliver moon, "if we make the first move, we could manage it. You know that the reedteeth are nothing without Cortez, and if we take him out… the whole system falls. The snotty prick thinks he's smart, and maybe he is, but he doesn't know which cards we're holding. We'll have surprise, and training, behind us… if we can just get moving before next week, we can do this. But. I won't send anyone in who isn't willing to go. I need you all behind me. I swear to God, this isn't about me, this is about you."

Silvery shadows wavered at the edges of her vision, and Devi felt a touch faint. This was big, oh this was so much bigger than herself. This was the lives of her friends and her friends' children, the last corner of civilization left in the only world she knew. The force of that realization almost knocked the breath out of her, and she searched the crowd for something to hold onto…. She needed support, because God help her, she was _scared_. There was no guarantee that they were going to win this. There was no guarantee that she was going to survive. And the worst part was, she couldn't let anyone see, not Derek or Gwen or even Tenna…

And then she felt a tingle in her shoulder, a strange burn filled with _presence_. She looked over, flicked her eyes to the left, and found Johnny by her side—totally silent, hands tucked into pockets, eyes steadfastly trained on the crowd. He stood beside her, close enough that the air between them coursed with the very nearness…

And Devi found that she was not afraid.

Looking back to the crowd, she asked them, finally, one question. "For the House?"

The reply came like a roar, fearlessly instant, and drew a smile from her lips. Tomorrow, she would plan. Tomorrow, she would muster and gripe and start new programs…

But tonight, she would stand beside Johnny, surrounded by the men and women and children she had at some point begun to call her People, and dream a dream of the future. A dream where the past was the past, and the present was the present, and they could live in peace.

(amen)

TBC


	24. Countdown

_The Change_

_Summary_: the world is wicked, the world is cruel. No one knows this better than humanity's emotional sewer system, Johnny C. But floods are a thing of the past, and the world is spiraling out of control. It seems like maybe, this time, the lights have gone out for good.  
_Story:_ a crossover of Johnny the Homicidal maniac, _Dies the Fire_, Invader Zim, and misc. names and places. In which the old world ends, and a new world begins.  
_Leading characters_: Johnny C., Devi D, Todd 'Squee' Castil, and the Zim and Dib duo.  
_Warnings_: Murder, language, references to cannibalism, of course Johnny C. himself, and religious stuff.

AN: I have had SO MUCH computer trouble. I can't edit this chapter anymore if I want it out before tuesday, so I hope it's good enough!

* * *

"It wasn't like my usual dreams," Johnny said, a touch of frustration in his voice.

"Okay, I'll give you that," Devi replied, "but it _was_ a dream. C'mon, Nny, you know better."

"Better than what?" he shot back. "in case you haven't noticed, things aren't exactly the way they were five months ago. And need I remind you of our _enlightening_ conversation the day that the Wall was being built?"

There was silence for a moment as Devi seemed to think about it. It was funny, but the Change seemed to have tempered some of her snappishness, not to mention stubbornness. He remembered the arguments that they'd had in the bookstore, debates really, and the way she'd refused to concede any point at all. Of course he loved her anyways, but it was nice to win an argument every once and a while.

"Okay," she finally said. "Fair enough. Who knows? Maybe this Mother-of-All _is_ really a force in the universe. Maybe she's just a dream._ I_ don't know. But yeah, you've had your share of weird shit, and I guess if you say you had a vision, then I believe you."

"A vision of what?" Pam cut in, taking a seat on the ground in front of them. She grinned at Johnny, and he suddenly remembered that night in the forest when he'd told her his dreams.

"A woman. A goddess. A... Mother-of-All. I'm not sure, but it was... nice. Confusing as fuck, but nice. I've got as many questions now as I did when she showed up trying to _answer_ all my questions, that's all I know."

"Divinity's a bitch," Pam agreed, tapping a nail against her tatoo. "But... hmmm... actually, you've reminded me of a song. I was just thinking about it yesterday... let's see..."

The blond woman, backlit by the flickering campfire, hummed to herself for a moment, and then nodded. She sang:

"But she would not think of battle that  
reduces men to animals  
so easy to begin and then impossible to end  
for she the mother of all Men  
councelled me so wisely then  
I feared to walk alone again,  
and asked if she would stay."

"I didn't know you could sing," Devi mused, one brow raised.

"Three years of high school chorus makes you good enough where it counts," she shrugged. "Me 'n Gwen make a pretty good duet, actually, when she knows the words."

Devi nodded towards the firepit where Squee was reciting his latest poem. The kid really had talent, Johnny supposed.

Pam shrugged, smiling. "Might as well, right?"

And she wandered off into the crowd, leaving Johnny and Devi alone at the edges of the gathering. Night had turned the air cooler than usual, and so the crowd sat closer to the fire than usual.

"I can't believe I'm taking these people into battle in seven days," Devi remarked, a kind of dull wonder in her voice.

"Because the world has changed so uttely that now former accountants and civil servicemen are counting on an artist to be their general?" Johnny guessed.

"Well, actually, I was thinking that we have no supplies and inferior numbers, but sure, let's pile some cognitive dissonance on top of the list. It's not like I have enough to worry about or anything." She smiled a little, though.

Johnny looked at her curiously, both loving and hating the catch in his throat as the moonlight and firelight battled across her skin. It made him do stupid things, but it was happiness. Brilliant, painful happiness.

"I'm here with you, you know," he said, and smiled a little too.

--

15th

"No whining!" Johnny shrieked, hitting one person so hard across the back of their head that they nearly toppled over. "Grow a fucking spine!"

A collective groan passed through the sunny summer air, muffled by throats that remembered the last time they had dared to complain out right. Johnny strolled down the ranks with hands grasped behind his back, checking to see if his orders had been followed. These days, you just couldn't trust people to stand on one foot with weights in hand for minutes at a time—eventually, one of the slackers would tip over.

"You're going to war in six days, you slovenly heaps of pointless human flesh. I intend to win this thing, and none of you are going to hold the rest of us back, got it?"

A grumble of "Yes sir" passed through the ranks.

"Alright, drop the metal and do whatever for a few minutes. Tara, up front."

The teenager dropped her weight like it was burning her hands and dashed up to meet him, blond hair whipping behind her. He liked the way it caught the sunlight, almost white, a fluttering flag. This one had potential, killing potential, and she was acceptable enough as long as she kept her mouth shut. It was... slightly unnerving to see the way she stared at him, as if he was a living saint or a prophet or the blood-soaked messiah, and it reminded him at times of… someone else.

But she could fight. Oh yes. Gymnast, apparently. And she took orders with a single-minded devotion.

"You fighting in the big battle?" he asked, glaring through one open eye.

She nodded vigorously.

"You might die," he told her, scrutiny unwavering. "How old are you, anyway?"

"Seventeen," she answered. Rapid fire syllables.

"Hmmm." The murderer thought to himself, sparing a moment to notice how linear his brain was becoming lately. He could very nearly focus… but of course, in thinking that, he _lost_ his focus. Where had he been? Ah. "Okay, well, we need anybody we can get. This isn't the civil war, after all. You've got the armor…" he glanced at her vest, "…but you need a weapon. You got one?"

She shook her head, eyes wide.

"You fight like a fucking wild cat, but it won't do you any good if you don't have some metal to slice and dice with. As it happens, I've got a sword myself… nothing fancy, but it's good steel. Maybe a little light for you… nah, it'd be about right."

He popped the weapon out of its sheath and tossed it her way, turning on his heel. He had other tools to choose from, and if she didn't want it, she could give it to someone else—meanwhile, he had other duties to attend.

"Alright, no nap time. YOU! Stand up when I'm talking, or I'll rip your spleen out. Let's not be rude, people."

Minutes passed by in a seamless whirl as he called out order after order. The newer recruits still needed conditioning practice, so he'd split the group in half, with one side working weights and the other mock-dueling. Wooden swords, he'd found, left pleasant bruises and instilled just enough fear to keep the Troupe on guard.

Grinning the grin of the mildly insane and rather sadistic, Johnny passed through the ranks continuously, until a flash of blue and black hair drew his attention towards the Wall. Devi stood by the gate, a calculating expression on her face. When their eyes met, she gestured for him to come over.

"Do you have a minute?" Devi asked, preoccupied gaze dashing back and forth across the field.

"Of course," he answered, comming to stand beside her. "If it's about these sorry fucks, I promise you I'll have them running like a machine by Zero Hour. We'll paint the town _red_."

"Not too red, hopefully," the woman replied, "corpses aren't useful for anything but fertilizer. But actually, I need to speak with you about our strategy…"

Nodding, Johnny tossed out a few terse commands and followed his leader under the shade of a house—shame that there were no trees in the neighborhood, but it hadn't been the classy sort of street where people could afford/care about such niceties. Johnny supposed that he must have found his house for precisely that reason: because no one would have noticed one shady character moving into an even shadier house.

"So, I've got some questions about how we're addressing the formation," Devi started, right to the point, "and I need to know how well armed everyone is going to be. Do my archers all have bow? Do my swordsmen all have swords? Have we caught up with armoring yet?"

"Well," the madman began to reply, and then paused. Such things took more concentration that he was used to. "We ran out of hides for the armor about three vests from the goal number, and Derek is whipping out bows as fast as he can… Swords, we're short on swords. The green kid can only make so many, and the woman's got to sleep, I guess. Fucking waste of time, but organics demand. And once again humanity falls before the union strike of their own biology!"

"Uh-huh," Devi grunted. "Try to stay focused, Nny. What have we got planned for the attack?"

They talked strategy for a long time. There were questions of ranks and leadership, division of labor and armaments… tactics, training, back-up plans…

"The definition," Devi said, at one point, "of 'implementing a plan', is finding how many different ways you can fuck yourself over."

The arrangement was simple, almost to the point of stupidity. There was no great finesse, no double-pronged attack, no wheels within wheels… Devi readily admitted that she was not a battle tactician.

"But," she added, "Neither is Cortez. And that's what we're counting on."

After all, nobody really knew how to do this. Guns were the ultimate force multiplier, and that wasn't even mentioning the change in warfare tactics, the need to duck and cover vs. stand firm, or reversal in defensible positions. In a way, it was lucky that none of them had any army experience before the Change… it might only confuse you.

"I think that's enough," Devi finally said, holding up a hand. She rubbed the spot between her eyes, and then the eyes themselves.

Johnny was suddenly stuck by the idea that she might be tired. Well, of course she was tired! She'd been working none stop for three days now. The real question was why he hadn't thought of it earlier.

"Devi," he started, "are you alright? You seem… drained."

A strange expression flitted across her features, resembling surprise—then it was gone. "Never mind that," she dismissed, "how about you? Any more dreams?"

Johnny shook his head. "Never thought I'd be waiting for a dream, but fuck it all, that's what I seem to be doing. The Lady said that I'd get answers… nothing yet."

"It might help if you actually went to sleep like a normal person," his companion suggested, a hint of amusement in her voice.

"Snowball in Hell," he shot back, scowling. There was only so much he was willing to give up, and he'd been fighting this battle with Sleep since before he could remember. No, the answers were going to come to him on _his _terms, damnit, or he'd do without.

"I'm taking the whole Troupe to the National Forest tomorrow… to get them acquainted with the terrain in case we lose the fight, and for a major scavenging boost. We need supplies, and badly. Maybe the change in scenery will help with your… um… questions."

The madman raised a brow. Actually, that wasn't a bad idea. He remembered thinking something about psychic claustrophobia before, although he couldn't remember exactly what, and it seemed like maybe he _did _think more clearly in the old forest. It was more natural than a city, put him at ease. Cities didn't feel _right_, not now that he'd seen the countryside.

It was as if he'd always had this sort of niggling thought in the back of his head, telling him that he needed more space, fewer people, less lights—basically, that a town was an uncomfortable, innately cramped place to live… and he'd been ill at ease for his entire life because of it, not realizing his own state because it was constant.

Or, you know, he might just really like trees.

Johnny smiled at Devi--a full, happy smile--conscious of the fact that neither of them were used to such genuine expressions—his usually manic, hers sarcastic. But it felt… nice to smile at her. With her.

"Thanks," he said, and then added, "You know I don't sleep myself, but you look like you could use some. Make sure you get to bed at a reasonable hour, okay?"

The blue-haired woman tilted her head. "What are you, my mother?"

"Something like that," he answered.

--

"I just wish I knew where Juan ran off too," Devi murmured, gazing across the table. She pronounced it "_H_uan", a little quirk of speech that the man himself found amusing. Or at least, he had before he disappeared into the city and never came back.

Tenna was sitting with the back of the chair between her knees, humming something that sounded vaguely like it came from _Cats_. The little Doll in her hands squeaked, and she replied, "He's Juan-ke-babs now, you know."

"Probably," Devi sighed, "but I hate not knowing for sure."

"Squeeki thinks you should give up on that."

"Make up your mind, Tenna," Devi said, scowling. "Is it Squeeki or Spooki?"

"Yes!"

"That's not an answer."

"It's not the answer you _want_," she sang out, "but it's the answer alright. Just because it's not simple and logical doesn't mean it's not true."

The white woman blinked, unnerved. "Have you… never mind. I'm, um, I'm going to check on Zim and Trisha."

"Okeedokee," Tenna called out, punctuating the word with a shrill 'squeak'. Devi shuddered a little bit.

As she ventured out into the hall, narrowly avoiding one of the many inexplicable hooks sticking off the walls, she pondered her friend's moment of clarity. It shouldn't be so unsettling--hadn't she heard the same thing from a half-dozen places? Pam said that sort of thing all the time, but she was religious. Johnny had told her about Mother-of-All, who seemed to say something similar, but that was a dream… And now Tenna--crazy, ignorant Tenna--was saying the same thing. And Devi wasn't certain that she believed in coincidences.

As she ventured down the stairs, voices drifted upwards and caught her attention, driving away spiritual fancies. They sounded agitated, and Devi slowed her steps, sliding against the walls so as not to be seen before she could see. You have to know what's going on under your roof, and a little eaves-dropping never hurt anyone.

"—skinny white bitch!" hissed a voice with a heavy oriental accent. _Lee_.

"Yeah, and which side does your family run? The theater or the _Laundromat_?" shouted a second voice, shrill and exultant.

"You want a piece of me?" Lee demanded, absurd with her pronunciation. Devi groaned—cat fight. Really, really bad.

The leading lady coughed, loudly, and stepped into the room with an air that tolerated no nonsense. Lee turned towards her, one hand suspended in mid-air with red nails poised for a painful blow. The other woman, blond, with fading blue streaks in her hair, squinted at Devi as if trying to judge whose side she would be on.

"Clarice," started the woman with all-blue hair. "Clarice, what's going on here?"

The blond seemed to settle back into a comfortable state, pointing one lazy finger at her opponent. "This… _woman_ was being antagonistic and haughty towards me, My Tallest."

"I was not!" the Chinese woman shrieked, cutting off anything Devi might have liked to say.

"You don't even know what those words mean," sniffed the Caucasian.

"You think I am stupid!" Lee shouted, acrylic nail mere inches from Clarice's face. "_You_ are stupid, and rude and lazy, and you are a jealous bitch!"

Devi stepped in between them, catching both of them by a wrist. Idly, she wondered if she could get radiation poisoning from the sheer hatred shooting around her head.

"Who's jealous of whom, now?" she asked, eyes daring them to do anything stupid. _Just try me._

Yanking her wrist away, Clarice responded, "Nobody, except maybe her, 'cause I'm smart and beautiful and I don't have a stupid accent."

"Don't _lie._ She is angry because I have Kevin and she has no one. Do you know why you are alone? Because you are a bitch! Nobody likes you!"

"Time out," Devi said, releasing Lee's hand. "You're telling me this is because of a _man_?"

"It is not—"

"You are just ashamed—"

"—don't even want that wop—"

"Because Gwen has Ben—"

"—Have any man I—"

"—even Tenna—"

"—I just—"

"—Kevin is—"

"—This bitch—"

"—whore—"

"SHUT UP!" Devi screamed, fists curled at sides.

Shocked silence ensued.

When the echoes had faded, "Oh my god," she almost laughed, "you two are _absurd_. I can't believe that anybody would fight over Kevin."

"He is a good man," Lee defended, a little tentative from being shouted at. "And there are not many for us to pick from."

Not many…? Oh. How interesting—was it hasty to assume? It sounded almost as if, as if the small band that Devi had collected in the last five months was turning back the clock, devising completely of their own ingenuity a new court-struggle for husbands and the status that accompanied having one. And this in the height of the modern world, only two years from the year two thousand! Emancipation and a hundred years of struggle for liberty tossed down the tube at the first sign of trouble.

Devi sighed. "Lee, were you bragging?"

"No. It is beneath me. I am merely not afraid to show that I am happy. I refuse to bow to the insecurities of discontented people."

"Clarice," the oldest woman went on, "were you antagonizing her?"

"How can you ask me that?" she seethed. "How can you ask _me_ that, like I'm the problem here?"

"Because you _are_ the problem here?" Devi replied.

Clarice took on the appearance of someone who had been slapped. Finally, her brown eyes narrowed and she growled, "What do _you_ know about it? What do you know about _anything_? What makes you think you can walk in here and tell me what to do?"

"It's my job," Devi answered, politely leaving off the 'duh'.

"I don't remember electing you queen of the flipping universe—"she stomped, "—and I definitely don't remember you ever giving a shit about what I did before now. Well, whatever. You know what? I'm tired of you people. All you care about is killing stuff and planting potatoes, and if Nny throws one more sharp object at my head I'm going to _lose my mind_. You're all fucking nuts!"

"Well we don't want you here if you don't want to be here," the oldest woman replied, patience wearing thin. "But keep in mind that there's not really anywhere else to go. And who else is going to cater to your need for nail polish or your _incessant _discussion of David Bowie? Who can feed you like we do? Who can spare the man power so that you can take a break whenever you feel tired? Who else can guarantee that you won't be dinner tomorrow because you pissed your leader off _one too many times?_"

"Fine," Clarice hissed. "Fine. I'll just sit here and let this squinty-eyed whore walk all over me. I'll just let you march me around like a two-year-old, like I'm too stupid to know anything about anything, never mind that I helped build this whole stupid fortress. Fine. I'll be in my room, painting my _fucking nails_!"

She stalked off, leaving a mildly disturbed Devi in her wake. Silence fell over the hallway as Clarice's heels faded into the distance, and Lee stared after her, as if willing her disappearing form to spontaneously combust. With a slightly nervous glance around, Devi asked, "Am I really that bad?"

Lee shook her head. "No. Clarice is just--"

"--a bitch. I know."

Still, there was something forboding about the whole incident. Arguments like these broke out all the time, a natural product of so many people living in such close quarters, and it was considered impolite to get involved in other people's buisness--which she had, and maybe that was what was bothering her. How did she know when she was toeing the line? How would she know if she crossed over from mediator to dictator? And yes, there had been something unnerving about Clarice's expression, something that went beyond petty frustration... or was she reading too much into this?

Absent-mindedly, she patted Lee on the back and wandered down the hall towards her work-room. She had an expedition to outfit, and all these questions, doubts, were taking up too much space in her mind. They could wait until next week, couldn't they? There wasn't _time_ right now.

And anyways, she had a bit of a personal project to check on, before the planning.

--

Johnny had a dream. A moment of a dream. A snippet of a dream. A flash on flash, as if snap-shot postcard memories were playing through his head as he slept. And this time, intimately familiar, this time from his own life--what he'd always thought of his life as, even though some of it he couldn't remember.

He dreamed that he stood outside the window of a paint shop. His pockets were empty, and he gazed longingly at perfect rows of oil paint, arrayed like little rainbows in white glossy tubes.

He dreamed that he sat on a bench in a park, as he had done since the sun rose and would continue to do until the sun set. The day light felt strange on his skin, and he realized that it was the first time he'd ventured out under the sun in a very long time.

He dreamed of his first kill, of the first man he murdered for no reason other than it suited him to, and god but he was _angry_. That was all. He was angry, and he was tired of life, and he wanted someone to pay for it. And he wasn't sure why.

He dreamed of raging against a machine he couldn't begin to understand, screaming wildly in the streets and collapsing under his own hatred and confusion.

He dreamed of quiet moments, when he could almost feel the truth welling up inside of him, dark and blue as the night sky. But he had been afraid, he realized now, afraid to see the truth and so he shrank back even as he howled at the injustice of his existence.

He dreamed that he met a woman in a book store, a woman whose voice quieted the sound of grinding, broken gears inside his own head. She wouldn't smile at him, at first, and so there was nothing in the world as valuable as her smile.

He dreamed of mania. He dreamed of the utter joy unlocked by killing, the way that all flawed, shallow human being were made perfect and clean in the moment after their last heartbeat, after he had exacted penance. Absolved them with pain. Baptised them with blood. And dead, they were perfect--or so he thought.

He dreamed of a night under the stars, and under his own roof, making the worst mistake of his life. That Devi looked at him once again, with that expression of utter revulsion and fear, hating him in that moment as strongly as she had ever loved him. And he remembered the pain of rejection, worse than the pain of broken bones and massive hemorrhaging, the pain of being wrong and wondering in that moment of weakness if he had been wrong in more than one way.

He dreamed that the Devil was smiling down at him, telling him things that he had _thought_ he wanted to know, had wanted to know until the answers were right in front of him and then he wished he could pull away, but he wouldn't because this was too important.

He dreamed of white, blinding, perfect light. The last light beside the sun that Earth would ever see.

He dreamed of that campfire in the forest, where the wavering mass of humanity all seemed to know him and yet he had only met a handful of the faces.

And he dreamed of a quiet voice, almost gentle, that he had heared before. A fearless voice, a voice that was confident and strong in its own understated way, a voice that told him "Soon".

TBC


	25. I am Death, Old as Mankind Itself

_The Change_

_Summary_: the world is wicked, the world is cruel. No one knows this better than humanity's emotional sewer system, Johnny C. But floods are a thing of the past, and the world is spiraling out of control. It seems like maybe, this time, the lights have gone out for good.  
_Story:_ a crossover of Johnny the Homicidal maniac, _Dies the Fire_, Invader Zim, and misc. names and places. In which the old world ends, and a new world begins.  
_Leading characters_: Johnny C., Devi D, Todd 'Squee' Castil, and the Zim and Dib duo.  
_Warnings_: Murder, language, references to cannibalism, of course Johnny C. himself, and religious stuff.

**Oh** my goodness. I didn't realize this was here! It's like CHRISTMAS came early! Enjoy, and know that I had SO MUCH FUN writing this chapter. I skipped all kinds of homework to finish it.

* * *

Dib had never been inside of Humboldt before. The first patch of forest they had walked through sent his mind reeling, and he'd though to himself, _Okay, now I see why everyone wants to save the trees so much._

Redwoods towered over them, like sky-scrapers made of wood and moss. It was alien, it was insane, it defied all the rational sections of his mind, and… it really reminded him of Jurassic Park Two.

One of the younger kids—everyone over eight years of age had come along on this trip—rushed up under foot and latched onto his pants like the denim could protect her from whatever creature were hiding in the trees. Oh, that was Tyler. But where was Miss Gwen?

"There's monsters out there," Tyler informed him, eyes wide as saucers.

"Aren't you too old to believe in Monsters?" Dib asked her, curious. Of course, he still believed in monsters and he was fifteen, but Science knew _he_ wasn't normal.

"Have you _seen_ those trees?" she demanded. "'Monster's just a word. There's gotta be… bigfeet or dinosaurs or something, at least."

"Yeah," Dib acceded, "there probably are. The good news is that Bigfeet just want to be left alone. Besides, you can smell them coming a mile away."

"What about the dinosaurs?"

"…er… Well, they're really big. It's kind of hard to hide a lizard the size of a building."

This seemed to satisfy Tyler, because she loosened her grip on Dib's leg and started walking, pulling him along. He'd heard a couple of the adults talking about the forest, but he'd thought they were exaggerating. Surely you couldn't _really_ have trees the size of master bedrooms.

From somewhere at the front of the Troupe, Pam called out, "By the way, this is second generation growth. The lumber companies cut through this section a long time ago, so some of these trees are no more than… oh, fifty years old."

Dib nearly fainted. How big were the really old ones, then? And more importantly, why hadn't Pam bothered to warn them about the freakin' _size _of these things? He'd grown up in the city! He wasn't prepared for this kind of thing!

The ground grew more precarious as they traveled, Tyler stubbornly clinging to him for so long that he eventually gave up and carried her on his back, switching his pack over to his hands. Ferns covered a lot of floor space, but there were sections of rocks here and there where thin streams of water made the ground moist and mossy—well, actually, there was moss _everywhere_. It was just notably slippery around those places.

In truth, he knew that Pam hadn't told them about any of this because she wanted to shock them, just a little bit. But Johnny, he wondered why Johnny hadn't bothered to mention it.

Dib caught sight of the man in question, leaping onto a fallen trunk with unnatural grace and bounding to the highest spot, peering ahead before catching one branch in hand and swinging down the other side. Dib sighed in wonder. That man was a force of nature.

Maybe _that_ was why he'd never mentioned it, maybe it just came naturally and he'd never even thought about how a normal person would feel, surrounded by primordial forests and mysterious, fleeting wildlife. Johnny was like one of his paranormal phenomena, like one of his favorite mysteries. Absolutely fascinating, and he had such dark eyes…

The trek took them hours, and at one point Dib found Gwen and passed Tyler off, much to the relief of his back. Eleven year olds are heavy! Bit by bit, they found their way to a modern lumbering site, the ground flat and relatively dry, just before sunset. Orders were passed along, and everyone set out their sleeping bags in a loose circle.

There was a quick debate about the pros and cons of a campfire, but the food they had brought was supposed to go into a stew and you needed a fire for that. Dib frowned at the thought. The word "stew" around here was code for "everything we've got to eat tossed in a pot together". There was everything from deer to wild mushrooms to acorn meat to _tree sap_, on one memorable occasion.

But it was food, and in the end, that was all you could afford to care about.

Pam led a small expedition into the surrounding woods to restock, and a couple of the trappers in training went out—led by Mr. Watson, this time—to try their luck. Dib stayed at the camp, jotting down notes on what he'd seen and what he'd sensed, though a lot of it was guess work—like that big-hungry presence he'd felt might or might not have been a bear. Heck, it could have been a starving elk for all he knew.

Devi was in the shadows talking with Johnny, as usual (he never talked to anyone else, it seemed sometimes, which made Dib unhappy) and all the pre-teens were in a cluster near the fire, where Dib was pretty sure he heard one of them reciting "The Jabberwocky". The other teens, loosely grouped around him, were sharpening knives and patching clothes, and discussing Lee and Kevin in hushed voices.

Zim hadn't made it along, of course. The rush to churn out as much weaponry as possible had confined him to the basement for the last few days, both him and Trisha. The woman complained loudly about "rotting in this horrible cellar", but Zim was exultant with purpose and patriotism. He might be an evil space creature with a penchant for destruction, but damned if he wasn't loyal.

Of course, Dib was really kind of lonely without him. None of the others got his jokes, although Aviva did hold up a pretty interesting conversation—it just wasn't the same. Heck, he hadn't spent more than two days away from the invader in four years.

Dib put aside his notes and picked up his bag, rummaging through it in search for stainless steel spoons. The little utensils could be flattened into arrow heads which could be filed down on the edges to create a sharp point. Devi had given them a quota the day after she announced the plan, assigning every person fourteen arrowheads by the week's end. Dib wasn't sure he could manage that, but a person had to at least try.

He wouldn't be going along. Anyone under twenty was volunteer only, and Dib had never fancied himself a warrior. A scientist, a writer, an investigator—heck, a spy even—but never a fighter. So he'd be staying back at the House with the children and Zeta and Keke, and whoever else couldn't go.

They'd been talking about it a lot, the whole House had. He had to admit, it could get a little boring with the same faces day in and day out, the same chores every day. No one these days really understood battle, except Zim maybe, and there was all kinds of talk about what it might be like—everything from horror-story gore to Victorian romanticism. Dib was just glad that _he_ didn't have to go out there.

An hour passed, as Dib noted comings and going out the corner of his eye, numbing his hands with the thud of hammer on steel. Crude, but they seemed to be effective. Gaz stopped by just long enough to inform him, in that uncaring monotone, that Nny was back from wherever he'd disappeared off to, and sounded a bit put out. Why she was telling him that, he had no idea.

The sun had long set when Dib heard the first disturbance. A little tremor rolled through his Other sense, curious because it wasn't accompanied by any new arrival. Someone in the camp was putting out enough psychic commotion that it registered on even Dib's weak radar… and the waves were getting stronger.

_What the…_

Dib stood, letting his half-finished arrowhead roll to the ground, and walked quickly to the other side of the clearing, circling around the one tent and the hanging cloths that obscured his vision. Whatever he was sensing, it was from just on the other side, and there seemed to be a crowd of people gathering, at least twenty of the forty people along. Dib had a sinking feeling that he knew what this was about…

"—DAMN IT!" Nny was shouting, and as he ducked under the nearest sheet Dib caught sight of him gesturing wildly.

"What's going on?" the teen whispered, leaning close to Pam.

The two of them stood now at the edge of the forming circle, night lit by a rather bright moon and the campfire on the other side of the sheets. Her eyes were wide and she seemed to be at a loss for words, but finally she replied, "I don't really know. I came over when I heard yelling and…"

Eyes back on Nny, who spoke into the air with a violence that could have torn the wind in half. His wild gaze shifted back and forth but he seemed to see none of them, and though the Troupe was long used to his bouts of irrationality, this seemed… wrong. Serious.

"I want answers!" the maniac howled, pitching his knife into the ground where it sunk to the hilt and trembled, smiley face pommel sprouting from the dirt like an absurd flower. "I want answers now! I'm tired of waiting, I'm tired of dreaming, I'm tired of fucking _questions_! I'm ready damnit, I'M READY YOU COSMIC SON OF A BITCH!"

And that was when Devi came in.

--

Devi first heard the commotion as she was walking back from a bit of a scouting mission, looking for a nearby stream more than two inches deep. So far, she had no luck.

Drawn back by the campfire's light, that little orange ember flickering between the trees, she heard a voice shrieking and knew immediately who it belonged to. First, she thought that it had finally happened, that Nny had snapped and gone on a killing spree and _why_ had she ever trusted him…

But then, rationality took hold as she found herself running the last few yards, breaking into the clearing on adrenalin-shocked feet. She didn't really believe that he would crack like that, not now, and the lack of fleeing, screaming people confirmed her trust.

In the corner, to her left, there was a mass of people in a loose ring, thick enough that she couldn't see what was inside—but she knew anyways.

The shriek became a howl, and she thought that she understood the words. Nny, in real distress, real pain, and she had to get to him… Nobody else could help him, no one knew _how,_ whatever the problem was, and she had to get to him _now_…

Devi pushed—beat, really—her way through the mass of people, throwing herself through the last of the bodies and into the center of the circle where Johnny was raving at the night sky, and Devi thought she spotted a hysterical tear running down his face.

Quickly, she caught his hand in her left hand—later she would realize how dangerous this was—and then his face with her right, forcing him to be still, though he pulled weakly at her grip. The howl broke off into a sob.

"Nny," she said, quietly, urgently, "Nny, please, calm down. What's wrong? What can I do?"

The mad man choked, sobbed again, and said, "I'm so lost. Devi, Devi, I can't wait any more. I need answers. I'm so… I'm so tired."

She let go of his face, slowly, her eyes on his gray ones, shimmering with spilt tears. And suddenly, she knew something she hadn't really known before, as if another person were standing beside her, pulling back a curtain so that she could catch a glimpse of the strange machine that made up Nny's mind and stretched on into the universe, cogs spinning and pendulums swinging in surreal patterns. _There_, and unexpectedly the first gear had made itself known.

"Nny," she whispered, "Nny, listen to me. You already know the answers. You know _all_ the answers, answers that the rest of us can't even imagine questions for. It's all in you," she tightened her grip on his hands, "in _you_."

His grey eyes were desperate, now his fingers clinging to hers as if he could absorb the truth through her skin. She struggled to show him, somehow, this thing that she knew now—she pushed the concept out of her head and into the world, pushed so hard that her eyes squeezed shut, and when they opened…

Johnny, staring into nothing, his jaw almost hanging from whatever shock had paralyzed him. All was silent for a moment, just long enough to wonder if something was _really _wrong, and then--

The shift in his eyes came suddenly, that darkening and narrowing, and his back straightened with a snap. In the flash of a second everything changed, almost too quickly for Devi to grasp—incomprehensible, surely, for anyone who had never seen it before.

Suddenly, there were shadows in his face that she had never noticed, and Otherness emanated from his very skin like radiation from a nuclear reactor. All of his parts were still Nny, but it barely looked like him at all. He said something in Spanish, and Devi could only shake her head, too shocked to speak. He tried again.

"What language do we speak? English?"

He looked around at the gathering, his eyes, curious, resting on theirs, fascinated and frightened. His attention finally centered on Devi, who nodded.

"Integration will take time," he said to himself, as if testing out the language, "and there will be confusion."

In a sort of way, it was so very strange to hear that detached, impossibly old voice from Johnny's mouth. _Her_ Johnny, who was smart, yes, but never this mechanical.

"You have called me out now," he said, talking to himself still, "so now you will hear the truth you have been seeking."

Devi summoned up all her bravery in the face of the Unknown and asked him, "What's the truth then? We're tired of your guessing games, and it's time for us to know the whole story." _Me especially_, she didn't add.

Old Johnny looked at her, impersonally, so incredibly different from the real thing. "If you can handle the whole story," he said, somewhat doubtful. "But, I will tell you what I can, and you will decide for yourselves how much to believe. Before I was Johnny Casil, I was No Man, and I am as old as mankind itself."

And with that foreword, the world, real and imagined, sank into his story.

"When the first human prayed to his gods for revenge for the very first time, I was conceived. Young and not yet wise to the ways of man, they sought to ease his burden by divine intervention. A thousand years passed whence they took it upon themselves to create me, and wither they laid me on this earth to do their bidding. I wandered through the continents wheresoever's my feet could take me, directed by powers too great for mortal comprehension, knowing only death and killing. I was known as Bast and Thanatos by the people of the Mediterranean, Sin in Sumerian, Vejovis in Italy, Evenor, Nemesio, the list is endless.

"Years uncountable I wandered the earth, exacting revenge on blasphemers and men who broke the Laws of God. Wheresoever a man or woman cried out for revenge, I made my way. I traveled by foot in the early epoch, and it was oft that when I came to the site of my task, the wife who called had died before, or the child who cried out was an old man. But to the confusion of the gods, the more that I exacted vengeance, the more that I was called upon.

"'Should he not,' they asked, 'have brought their evil deeds to an end?' As the ancient cities of Greece only just began to raise their first buildings, the Gods pondered their wisdom. Humanity, so new, so young and illogical, was a mystery even to the Mysteries themselves.

"As Romulus stole women for his tribe to wed by force, I walked to the Philippines in the company of a migrating tribe at my master's behest. Yes, still they wondered, but my duties were not lightened while they debated. The nature of man is a convoluted thing, with twists and turns of contradictions that Gods do not understand, any more than mortals understand their Gods. How then, they wondered, could they do what was best for men?

"After the first great Emperor of China burned his books, one day, I was given a measure of freedom. I myself was a man, but a man of great power and secrets. When the Gods finally reached a consensus, it was this: Men are selfish creatures, but capable of great good. A lighter hand is necessary to bring about their potential, no matter the hardships they face daily. It pained them, but they pulled back.

"In the day when a Nazarene was only a small child living in Egypt, they took away the greatest one of my powers. In return, I was granted the freedom to choose my victims and live as a normal man, so much as I wished. In my time upon the earth, I had learned lifetime by lifetime slowly what it meant to be human. After eons of murder and vengeance, all I wanted was that simple life which I had glimpsed in my eons on this planet, but never come close enough to feel. Perhaps I might even be granted death, one day.

"But fate, that sadistic mistress before whom even the Gods have oft broken, would not let me rest. Perhaps it was my knowledge of mankind, perhaps my ancient origins, perhaps the very nature and purpose of my creation, but all that I could reach was tragedy. No matter thence I walked, I could find no peace. Darkness and hatred were drawn to me, as moths are drawn to flame and a compass is pulled north. Inevitably, the dark underbelly of man was all that revealed itself.

"My few lights of good and optimism were capped by the same shadows I sought to leave, or simply by time itself. I became many things: a witch, a monster, the boogeyman of grown peoples. I had never been given a true name, for my creators exist in a realm where names cannot be comprehended by man, and they could not speak into my human mind the truth of my being. I was avenger, killer, right hand, savior, Sword of the Lady, wrath, The Grim Reaper. So I took new names, as I traveled, and I was given many as well. Nemo, I often called myself, for it seemed that I was No Man to the mortal world.

"But a man I was, albeit immortal, and capable of all things men are. Choice, love, hate, fear—I knew all these. Faced now with an aimless existence and an ever darkening world, I sought to be the antithesis of what I saw. Surely, a single man who lives forever will make a greater impression than many who do not. I took advantage of no one, I retaliated as little as I could, and I kept bottled within me all the anger and aversion I felt towards this hateful world with its hate-filled people. But repressed, it grew inside me even as I toiled on the land or served in castles, or rode on horseback across the Eastern plains. The Gods were silent.

"And then. Oh, and then, in what came to be called the fifteen hundreds, after hundreds of years of lost wandering, interspersed with a sleep lasting decades, I came to a new hope. The Spanish were collecting a crew to sail to the New World, to what was later called Mexico. The others boarded in hopes of riches, but I boarded in hopes of finding a place where mankind did not yet hate me by nature. I took the name Juan, and worked my way into the crew as a guide. In my travels, I had come to know most every climate, and also how to survive them. I knew I could come to understand the new world quickly.

"We disembarked in the newly conquered lands, and immediately I loved them. The gift of tongues, which had never been rescinded, served me well. I traveled north as the years passed, and my heart remains grounded in the days when I danced a chronal weave between the Spanish colonies and the native peoples. But people are only people, no matter which end of the world you take them to, and soon the darkness was on my heels once more.

"These white men, of whom I was one, were crueler here than they had been in their homes. Rape and slavery were but daily dealings, and I knew not how to end them. One man, immortal or not, could not end the evils of an entire race. So I ran.

"And I slept. I slept for years at a time, knowing that no creature would dare disturb me. And between years of dreaming, I learned the nature of the native people, and their ways. They too were only human, and also as capable of sin as decency. But something in them was different, and through my ancient memory, it reverberated with my earliest recollections. Man before the walls of Jericho fell. Africa before the Great Kings were born. Amongst the tribes, I wandered once more; righting wrongs where I found them—it was my purpose, the soul of my creation, and justice was my only name. Nemesio.

"In time, I reached the high of California, beyond the now San Francisco, where _Spaniard_ was not yet a word but still a jumble of sounds. For the first time in many hundreds of years, I found a place where I felt entirely comfortable, purely by chance. I joined a community of farmers, became one with the land. And when I neither aged nor died, they did not throw me out, as Europeans had. A long time I spent within them, and I knew that they were only people, with flaws and weaknesses in surplus—but they were good people, and adept at survival. After many years, I came to love a girl, whose name I will not speak, and she found that she loved me also.

"Finally, after thousands of years of wandering, I had found a home. I loved her with a purity I had not known I possessed, which the Greeks might have called _agapé_. I built a house of willow wood for our future, and we did live happily for the blink of an eye. But in the late seventeen hundreds—though I am not certain—our only child just barely a man, the white men came. Like wildfire, they spread across my home. Before I could scarcely draw breath, my wife lay dead, and my son was dragged away.

"It was in that moment that all my countless centuries of suffering, only soothed on the surface by those last few peaceful years, broke free from their tethers. What was this mankind worth, when they stole my only love from my very arms and smashed to pieces my only joy? Why should I fight to protect it, to defend it, to _avenge_ it, when all it had ever given me was sorrow and abuse? For the first time in my endless existence, I killed not at all for vengeance of others, but for my own pain.

"The days that followed are like a swath of red across my memory, a bloody pit into which all other thoughts and experiences tumble down. A Tartarus of my emotions. I descended into the Spanish camp, as Dante into Hell, and killed them all—cursed them, killed them, obliterated them from the face of the earth in the name of everything I had lost and all my broken dreams which lay shattered at their feet. And when at last the pain had leaked out, left me hollow, I slept. For a hundred years, I lay dreaming of the woman I had loved, and the life I had found, as if they had never drifted away into the smoking sky. So vivid were my visions that, when I awoke, I could not understand the world into which I rose, nor the end of the world I left behind.

"I cried out, cried out to the Gods who created me for their purposes, and they could not answer, for time had tied their tongues.

"And I slept once more, for many years again, dreaming the same alluring dreams. When I opened my eyes this time, the contrast ripped at my mind, worn thin by eons of grief. Perhaps I went mad. All that I know: my world was never the same. I learned English, made for myself a facsimile of a life, wandered through the century in a daze. The pain of waking from those dreams overshadowed my existence. I slept no more and tied my heart down. War passed. The Depression passed me by, also—what did the world know of depression that I did not? Once more War came and went, leaving an angry sore on the soul of mankind, and I found others like me, saw my own despair and anger in their eyes as they took their halting steps off the returning trains.

"I cared no longer for my once noble ways, and the darkness and I held truce. I took a new name. John Carson. Johnny C. It made no difference to me. I never had a name to start with.

"By the passing years, the memories grew more painful. How could I live with the reminders every day, in my head where I could not hide from them? Dreams, when I dared to dream, tormented me to the point where I was no longer certain what was real.

"I did then what children know to do by instinct. I took my memories and locked them away, into a dark place too deep whence any thought to rise. The time just before and after that key turn remains a mystery to me, distorted by my own perceptions. When I finally came to wakefulness, Johnny C was all I ever had known. But madness does not relinquish its hold so easily.

"My silence ended a decade ago, my truce with the darkness torn at the hands of a cruel higher power. As tabula rasa, I knew not of my antique origins, nor my deep powers. The System, with whom I never made acquaintance, assigned me a new role in the fate of mankind. I was to channel the very darkness I fought so long against, to act as a human conductor. More now than ever, the dregs of the world gravitated to me, and my fragile vestige of sanity ripped into shreds broken and bloody. They did not pick their victim well.

"I lived a sick parody of a life these last five years, a bloody pantomime of humanity, too mad to see my own separation but too sane to separate myself completely. It weighed ever more heavily on me each day, tainted me as it passed through my soul, as a river is polluted by outpoured waste. But through all my confusion a vestige of my conception stayed within me, and I fought the darkness wherever I perceived it, clouded though I was. I threw a dagger into the eye of human corruption, but my aim was not true, and I harmed more than I aided.

"I remarked once, that I was the answer to a question I could not remember asking. A wild machine with broken cogs, whose maker could not be found or questioned. This was true.

"After millennia of ever sinking existence, culminated in my service to The System, I was finally gifted with death. My time as a channel for man's Sickness came to an abrupt finale, shattered by a gunshot unmanned. Lying on the floor of my own home, I caught a flash of the man I once was, in the moments before I truly died. I shall say that the afterlife was not what it had once been—I saw but a corner of it, as my madness tainted even death. I was offered a chance to learn the past, but I passed it by without a thought.

"I was returned to earth. Nigh on two years have passed since my exodus and return, free of the on-going corruption from the decade past. The part of myself that first opened as I died grew stronger—memories, the love that I felt once, the control that I had lost in the midst of my insanity. A perverse sort of guardian angel directed my transformation. Cuts dried, tides abated, a very slow change began. And now, the Change forces one, last revolution.

"Listen then, if you have ears. I speak to every human being who stands before me—this is but one face of the truth, and I am but one voice. Amongst the disaster and loss of our Fall, there is hope ready to rise from the ashes. The world is cruel, and people are crueler still. This is our own flood story, no matter which face of reality you choose to view.

"So here I am, and here you are."

And then Johnny turned on his heel and disappeared into the shadows.

TBC


	26. Edgar Vargas

_The Change_

_Summary_: the world is wicked, the world is cruel. No one knows this better than humanity's emotional sewer system, Johnny C. But floods are a thing of the past, and the world is spiraling out of control. It seems like maybe, this time, the lights have gone out for good.  
_Story:_ a crossover of Johnny the Homicidal maniac, _Dies the Fire_, Invader Zim, and misc. names and places. In which the old world ends, and a new world begins.  
_Leading characters_: Johnny C., Devi D, Todd 'Squee' Castil, and the Zim and Dib duo.  
_Warnings_: Murder, language, references to cannibalism, of course Johnny C. himself, and religious stuff.

Guess who gets to make an appearance?

* * *

Meanwhile, Johnny dreamed.

In his dream, he met a man named Judas, and they discussed divine retribution and Divine Intervention. In his dream, he wandered through the streets of San Francisco, addled as if by drugs and wishing he could be so simple. In his dream, he saw the first surrealist paintings hung in a gallery and felt a spark of life for the first time in so, so long. In his dream, he stood beside the throne of a king, and whispered into his ear "Remember, you are mortal."

And Johnny dreamed that he was in a café, drinking soda from a paper cup and quietly hoping that no one would laugh at him. He'd hate to get blood all over the pretty white décor.

There was a man sitting across from him, with thin glasses and a long, straight nose, and a serene little smile. He held a menu with pianist's fingers and read the names under his breath. Johnny knew him…

"Of course you know me," the strange man said, a laugh hidden in his voice, not bothering to look away from the price lists.

"I killed you," the murderer mused, frowning. "I liked you."

"Am I still you bestest friend in the whole room?" Edgar asked, looking up now.

"You're dead," remarked Johnny, searching for a clue in the murdered man's brown eyes. There was something, something just out of reach…

"And you're dreaming," Edgar retorted, but there was no sting in the words. "Most of the people you dream about are dead. That's the effect of having such an extraordinarily long life, I'm afraid."

"Oh."

Johnny took in the panorama, realizing that he recognized most of the people in the restaurant, at least somewhat. Quite a few of them were in the Troupe although some were not, dressed in clothing that—if he could guess—spanned centuries back into history. They all seemed perfectly pleasant, and most of them were alone at their table. The restaurant was unusually bright as well, not at all like the smoky cafés he was used to, populated by jerks and snobs of the neo-beatnik variety.

"So where am I?" Johnny started, figuring it was a good place to begin.

"That's a hard question," the dead man replied. "In a very loose way, you could say we're in your heaven. In a slightly more literal way, you could say we're in your memory. But to be exact: we're in your dream."

"Uh-huh." The darker man frowned at his companion. "Then maybe I should ask _why_ we're here."

Edgar put down his menu and quirked his lips. "You could ask me that. Granted, as it's a dream we're in, I won't give you a straight answer. I hope you aren't offended."

"Offended? At you?" Johnny snorted, and rolled his eyes for good measure. "That'd be like kicking a puppy. Which, come to think of it, I _have _been known to do…"

"Johnny," Edgar said, suddenly very serious, "do you remember why you killed me?"

He thought about it. "Um… I needed your blood, right?" Johnny tried, "For the Wall."

"Yes," the murdered man agreed, nodding. "For the monster in your walls. Do you know what it was?"

Johnny shrugged. "Something. It's gone now."

"Haven't you ever wondered?" Edgar pressed on, leaning forward. "Haven't you ever wondered what happened to the people you sacrificed?"

Blinking, the murderer said nothing. No, he'd never thought about it. He had, on occasion, wondered _why_ the wall needed blood, but he'd never thought about what it was or what happened to the people it had him kill. It snuck into his life, masquerading as his own madness for so long that even after he realized it wasn't _him_, he had never questioned it. It was natural to accept it for what it was, positively eerie to consider it for the first time after all the months he had just _lived_ with it…

"You know about the System," Edgar went on, "and you know that the two are connected. Surely you've wondered _how_…"

"Not really," Johnny disagreed. "You're looking at it like an outsider. I lived with it, you know, and it wasn't so obvious from where I was standing."

"Hmm." Johnny's victim seemed to ponder that. "Alright then. The System _is_ very good at corrupting its servants… subtly, when it wants… The monster you served for so long was the System as much as It was also the evil you'd collected, given life and form. You may remember that It seemed to demand blood, rather like an infant demands a bottle… It was hungry, you see, and the only person who could feed It was you. The blood wasn't enough in itself—it was the _life_, and the more It absorbed, the more real It became. Blood sacrifice trails back to the begining of the human speices for good reason. So, meanwhile, you were funneling negativity into It, acting as a channel, and It was trying to become Real, and It was feeding your figments with independent will, and they were helping you seek out negativity…"

Johnny looked at him with glazed eyes.

"Think of it... like a web, where everything is connected and leading to the same center point. The monster wanted to kill, but in order to kill it had to be alive--and you were the lock keeping it closed away. Because the monster was not exactly the System, more like an avatar of the System, it didn't understand that to escape was to die. Does that make sense?"

"Uh… maybe."

Edgar reached across the table and tapped the spot directly between Johnny's eyes. "You've got yourself confused, Nny. You've built blocks and walls and tunnels through the walls and detours around the blocks that all lead back to the same place, and with all that mystification you can't figure out a thing. I've been watching you, and I know you're smart. You've got potential. But before you can do anything about it, you've got to break down all that construction."

The maniac snorted. "That's easy for you to say. You don't have to _do_ it. Besides, I think you're making this way more complicated than it's supposed to be."

"No, everything is supposed to be complicated," Edgar assured him. "If anything is ever simple, it's because there's something you don't know."

That displeased Johnny, mainly because he had the sneaking suspicion it was true.

"So," Edgar went on, "do you want to know the truth? Can you handle it?"

"Oh, why the fuck not?" Johnny sighed. "I've come this far, right? I'm sure I can handle whatever deep dark mysteries await me."

The murdered man smiled softly, reached out and rested his hand on top of Johnny's. Surprisingly, the contact didn't make Johnny's skin crawl. Maybe because he was dead?

"I know you can. I just wanted to be sure. Despite what you did to me, I think we could have been friends, if things had been different. By the way," he added, pulling back, "you've already figured things out. You just have to put the pieces together."

Johnny blinked.

"You're out there right now," Edgar informed him, smiling pensively. "You're telling a story to yourself. You're telling a story to your people. I want you to promise me that when you come back to yourself, you'll try to take it seriously. You said you wanted the truth, right?"

A nod. As if he had a choice.

"Well, you're finally getting it, Nny. Don't worry, you'll still be you… just with a new perspective. New memories. But no matter what, you're still you, alright?"

The unnerving thing was that somehow Edgar knew exactly what Johnny wanted to hear. Because he _did _need that reassurance, the promise that reality wasn't going to shift again. He was still adjusting to not having a TV—there was no way he could handle his own personality dissolving out from under him.

"You'll remember me, right?" the stranger asked, looking for a moment like a shy child. "I've been making sure you didn't forget me up until now, but I won't have an excuse to interfere after this."

Johnny wasn't sure what to say to that, but Edgar seemed to see something in his eyes that pleased him. The smile returned.

"Then it's time to find your way back to the end," he said, picking up his menu again, "but more importantly, back to the beginning."

And Johnny surfaced from his dreams just long enough to find himself awake, alone, and resting beneath the ancient trunk of a tree.

Gaz crept through the underbrush, silent as an owl in the night. The sun would be going down in maybe twenty minutes leaving her little time, but she did not rush. Haste makes waste, after all. Gaz was patient, to a point, and she certainly did not give up.

The deer twitched, sensing her attention. Stop, make no movements. The doe turned back to her foraging, nibbling at some unseen delicacy. Back to her acorns, nosing at the ground with a sort of delicate urgency that Gaz found slightly annoying. She'd always hated _Bambi_. Knock shaft, draw back, hold... hold... aim, _fire_.

The arrow burst through the doe's head, a remarkable shot if she did say so herself. The others were always whining that she took too many risks, as if she didn't come out on top at least seventy percent of the time, and getting better.

The teen sauntered over to the body, still twitching slightly, and smiled a grim smile. She broke off a leaf from a low hanging branch and pressed it into the doe's mouth, coating her fingers with blood in the process. Bloodied fingers went to her lips, leaving a red dot on the wind-scored flesh.

The Last Bite, a hunting ritual of Germanic origin. Ever since her first kill she'd made time for it, almost religiously, regardless of whether she was alone or in company. Certain traditions had to be observed.

Reaching down to take hold of the body, a snatch of black cloth caught her eye, peaking out from around the great tree's side. Sunlight filtering down through a hole in the canopy had sprung up bushes of hemlock and huckleberry around this side of the massive trunk, but even through the greenery she could see a snatch of black—and contrary to popular belief, there is no black in a forest. Particularly not black _cloth_.

She stood, took a step forward, realized with a touch of shock that it was an arm.

_What the..._

Followed around the curve of wood, the arm led her to a torso, and the torso to a face. The face was gaunt, cheekbones sharp as a knife and eyes rimmed by insomnia, clenched shut against the fading light of day.

...Johnny.

Gaz stood abruptly and pulled a whistle from the pocket formed by her bra and breasts—you weren't supposed to make noise out here in the woods, but this was an emergency and she was going to need help bringing two bodies home, rather than the one she had expected.

She whistled, the shrill call once upon a time associated with rape-awareness, and gazed down on the sleeping man's face.

Questions swirled through her head, meek under the bindings of her will, but still desperately curious. How much of what he had revealed last night was true? Was he crazy—stupid question, of course he was. But exactly _how_ crazy was he?

The whispers she had heard today and the night before told her that, even if she was skeptical, there were more than a few people in the troupe willing to take his story at face value. The world had Changed, and with it, the paradigms of the "modern" world. And to some of them, a man who had seen the Tower of Babel fall seemed only a measure more strange than a pulse of white light that rendered all technology useless.

She hadn't heard the story herself—Dib had told her, later on last night, what he had heard. Now, Gaz had seen alien activity first hand, been cursed with supernatural pig powers, visited a demon realm, and tapped into superhuman reserves in the course of her fourteen-year life, but it seemed different to think of Johnny as a… a demigod. She knew the man—this man, passed out on the forest floor—and he just didn't seem holy enough. Or infernal enough. Whatever. The point was…

Crashing footsteps brought her back to the present, and she felt the press of Dib's consciousness. It was about damn time. She would carry the deer, Dib could carry Nny. He'd probably be thrilled. Her older brother was just a bit _too_ fond of Nny, if you wanted Gaz's opinion.

They trudged back to camp, Dib raving wildly the entire way about Nny's story the night before, Gaz blocking most of it out. There had been a time when she would have threatened him into silence with a nightmare world from which there was no awakening, but now was not then. After the last few months, she was content to let her older brother talk—it was a good reminder that he was still breathing, a thing which she no longer took for granted.

Dib called out as they reached the edge of the clearing, some excited gibberish about Johnny, of course. Never mind the deer that Gaz had shot, that wasn't important in his mind. She snorted. Sometimes she was sure that the boy would starve if someone didn't put food in his hands.

Johnny's impossibly light body was pulled off of her shoulders and carried away, apparently to Devi's tent. The whirlwind of chatter started up around her, "did you see" and "can you believe" breaking over her head like rain. It seemed to Gaz that the people around her were almost desperate for something, anything, to confirm or deny the truth of Johnny's tale. Eyes tracked the sleeping form's movement until it disappeared into a tent.

A flash of faded purple caught Gaz's eye—reminding her that her own hair had faded back to black weeks earlier—and she turned to find Zeta standing beside her, unusually quiet for such an abrasive person. Some people simply are not suited to moments of gravity, and this once-popular girl was one of them.

"What do you think?" Gaz asked, her low, nasally voice strange in her own ears. She didn't talk much any more.

Zeta jumped a little, but replied, "I think it's for real."

"Why?" the younger girl asked, eyes falling shut so that she could think—process whatever Zeta would say, if anything.

"You weren't there last night…" the older girl said, almost a question. "He had this… _look_. He had this… well, everyone knows Johnny, you know Johnny, and that wasn't him. You should have seen his eyes… it was like he didn't have eyes at all… and Devi, she…"

Gaz tried to envision it as her companion struggled desperately for words. Frustration rose up behind her eyes--you needed a poet to describe this kind of thing, and a poet Zeta certainly was not. Then, perhaps, she ought to find a poet.

Without a word, Gaz turned to the center of the clearing and walked away, seeking out one of the few people that she knew could describe this for her. Dib was a scientist, concerned only with direct quotations and implications, facts and theories. Zeta was a simpleton, concerned only with the way that the world interacted with her. But there was someone she could count on to paint the necessary picture…

"Billy," she said, tapping the older man on his shoulder.

The southerner turned and smiled when he realized who it was—he liked her, more even than he liked most people, which was saying something. She had been intrigued by his stories, particularly the more macabre, and had shared a few of her own when pressed. Apparently she had the storyteller's gift, when interested.

"What do you think?" she asked.

"About what, miss?"

"Johnny. That story. Whatever. What was it like?"

Billy sat down on the foldout chair behind him, a pensive look on his tanned face. If there was anything she liked about Billy, it was the man's ability to think seriously. Gaz thought for a moment of taking a seat on the ground, then decided that there was nothing wrong with standing… anyways, she didn't like to be below eye level if she could avoid it.

"Last night," he started, glancing up at the sunset-stained sky, "Johnny Casil was No One. He looked out at that crowd of friends and students as if he was surrounded by the trees of the forest. Wasn't a spark of recognition when he glanced at me, no softer tone when he spoke to Devi. He was the bones of a man, the simplest most enduring baseline of a human consciousness—all memory and emotion locked in time like a beetle caught in amber."

"Do you think he was telling the truth?"

"Gaz," he answered, without looking at her, "I don't think it _mattered_ if it happened. It's true 'nough, either way. Sometimes things can be real without havin' happened, y'see? People make things real, people create their own Gods."

Gaz nodded. That was accurate enough to suit her, at least until she could evaluate Johnny herself. Looking over at the tent for a moment, she wondered idly how Devi was taking the whole thing.

Devi wiped a beat of sweat from over her eye, bending to fold up the bottom of the tent. The sun was going down, but a day's worth of heat had collected inside and she had to get it out fast—if not for Nny, then for her own sake. Six inches off the ground should let in a good amount of air.

She stood and turned, hand resting on the fabric wall as she simply looked over at Nny. His sleeping form lay unnaturally still, breathing deep and even and inflating his thin chest. He could almost be called peaceful, which was far more disturbing that any other state she'd seen him in. She hoped he would wake up soon—Nny sleeping was just too strange for her to stand, though you couldn't deny that he needed it.

They had him laid out on her sleeping roll, since he didn't seem to have brought one, in this strange little tent that they had rigged up—eight poles in a box frame with a tarp thrown over it, in what she imagined must resemble the mother-in-law suit of Abraham and Sarah's homestead. It afforded privacy that she hadn't known she'd need, but fuck she was thankful for it now. She doubted that Johnny would appreciate waking up in a room full of people.

Taking a seat beside the shadowy form—she hadn't allowed any candles inside, so the only lighting was filtered in through the lifted sides—Devi stared down at the man who'd been so many things to her.

Once upon a time, she had thought she loved him. He was smart, he was funny, he asked about her day, and he was so sweet about respecting boundaries she hadn't even known she had. He didn't even eat brains. But that wasn't love, not really. In hindsight, it lacked the sort of closeness that real love demanded.

Because let's be honest, Devi had been a desperate woman. A lonely, frustrated artist dealing with the emotional repercussions of more failed relationships than there were paintings in her attic. But fondness and vague attraction and a frantic need to be cared about do not make love.

Nor was her hatred of him, after the Fateful Date, so much real hatred. At least not the way she had thought. She was angry and shocked and oh so incredibly scared—mostly scared, for the first few days—but she hadn't really hated him, not as much as she had hated herself for being so damnably stupid, and oh, she was furious at him for betraying her, for ruining the _one_ thing she thought might work out. Well, maybe she had hated him. But it was more complicated than she'd ever given it credit for.

You can hate a person with every fiber of your being, but it doesn't change what was there to begin with. Memories don't change, dreams don't change, nor do the people involved. The only thing that changes is whether you want to hurt them or not. She had.

And now, they were… friends? That didn't seem quite right. Partners, maybe?

Eyes adjusting to the dark, she reached out thoughtlessly to touch the deep circles under his eyes.

What did she know for sure? That he cared about her, never had stopped caring about her. That he had given up more than she would have dared to ask, for her sake. That he was not stable or normal, but that he tried. That she trusted him with her life on any occasion, anywhere, any time. That she would be sorry if he died.

She stopped herself there. Maybe Johnny _couldn't_ die? She had beaten his face in and left him for dead once, and had heard from a reliable witness that he had been shot clean through the head at point blank range. And then there was the matter of that story. The eyes that had turned to her last night were not Johnny's. The voice that had shared the account was not Johnny's. The creature that had held them all captivated in the darkness _was not Johnny_. And it scared her.

What if her Johnny couldn't come back? What if he was trapped, what if he was erased, what if she had unleashed this automaton of cold, mental exactness with no way to force him back in? The thought that she might never see Johnny again was painful, but the thought that instead she would see that lifeless, horribly sane monstrosity was more than she would entertain.

_Time passes_, she thought, _people change. If he doesn't come back... _

She sat in the darkness for a long time, too worried to be bored but incredibly impatient. And then, just as she was thinking she might take a walk around and check on dinner, the sleeping man shifted. He opened one eye—Devi could barely see the movement in the darkness and thought at first that she'd imagined it. But then, the madman turned his head towards her and croaked out in a voice dry from sleep-

"Devi?"

Relief sang through her frayed nerves. She nodded, then considering the darkness, answered, "Yes."

"Which one is this?"

"Which one," she replied, a bit puzzled, "of what?"

"The memories…" he stopped and thought. "…Sometimes I can tell, when they take me back to the middle ages and ancient Egypt, and... did you know I can still write in hieroglyphs? But some of the dreams are like now, like a year ago… some of them are just dreams. I think I'm dreaming again."

"Why?" she asked, curious.

"This is one of the ones I hate," he sighed, and a ruffle of cloth told her that he had turned his head away. "Where I never tried to kill you. And it'll be over when I open my eyes again. It's alright, I'm resigned to it now."

Devi almost laughed. "Open your eyes again, then," she told him. "Real enough for you?"

A sharp intake of breath.

Devi sighed, letting some of the stress sink out of her bones. "I'm glad you're back," she admitted, and didn't add anything about his other personality. "Nny, do you remember what happened yesterday? Do you remember anything?"

Johnny was silent for a moment, then replied, "Kind of. I was dreaming for most of it—I remember my dreams. And I have all these new memories, ones I can just reach out and catch any time I want… like, I remember Pearl Harbor. How freaky is that?"

"So you know…" Devi waved a hand, "…about the whole immortality thing? Something about Gods?"

"Maybe… Something's there…" the maniac murmured, shaking his head weakly against the fabric of the sleeping bag. "I remember Something. Somethings. I don't think I can put it in words. But I remember walking with Them, though it gets fuzzier and fuzzier the farther back I go."

Devi sighed. How very typical of the powers that be--it had been too much to ask for, of course. You finally find someone who was there from the begining, and even after the Big Reveal, they couldn't remember what had happened. That was alright, she supposed, in the end. The important thing was that he knew the worst of it now—she could fill him in on anything he'd forgotten. After all, his speech the night before was burned into her brain pretty much permanently now. She could retell it without a pause, probably.

"Devi," the murderer pressed, reaching out with one glove-clad hand to catch her bare one. "Devi, you're here with me, right?"

"Yeah," Devi answered, feeling vaguely inadequate.

"Good," he breathed. "Good. I… I don't think I could do this alone."

"It's alright. You don't have to," she reassured—and was surprised to find that the words were sincere. "We can handle this, Nny. And anyways, you're through the worst of it."

"Heh," he laughed, voice slow with returning sleep. "You called me Nny."

"Yeah... what do you know?"

And Johnny drifted back into his dream.

The walk back to the House was an interesting experience for Todd. Going a little slower than usual, he fell into step with Tyler--the scary blond girl who was maybe a year older than him. She looked to be thinking hard about something, a nice change from her usual violence. She had punched him one too many times for comfort, but she seemed perfectly content to walk beside him right now, saying nothing. Her brown eyes flicked over to him, from time to time, sometimes warily, sometimes thoughtlessly. To amuse himself as they trekked through the forest, Todd began to compose an epic poem in his head, about a wolf that leaves his pack and travels across the country searching for Something Else... He realized half way through the second stanza that he was vividly remembering what Johnny had told him about his ill-fated road trip, and that his Lone Wolf bore more than a passing resemblance to the man himself. Curious.

"Hey Squee," Tyler interrupted, head tilted toward him now, "What are you working on, right now?"

He told her. He'd never quite learned how to keep his mouth shut, a weakness that had caused him many various problems in school, and he kind of regretted starting by the time he'd stopped. Tyler smiled, though, attention unwavering. Finally, he asked, "But how did you know I was working on anything?"

The blond girl shrugged smugly. "I know that look," she said. "You get real far away and you kinda stare at your feet. You gonna recite it for us when we get back to the House?"

Squee shrugged a little self-consciously. "Uh… maybe? I need to finish it first, and then I have to go back over. It's never done when you finish it, you know…" Then the boy shook his head. "That didn't make sense."

"Nah, I think I see the point."

"Really?"

"Not that point, the one on top of your head."

Squee scrunched up his face in displeasure while Tyler cawed hysterically. Apparently she found the tenuous pun incredibly amusing, although he couldn't see what was so funny about it. He'd always known that Tyler was a couple cupcakes short of a birthday party, and so he really shouldn't be surprised… oh boy, he really attracted the loonies didn't he? It was one of those things he was learning lately to accept with a sigh.

"I really like your poems," the blond girl finally giggled, "We all do. I liked that one about the Moon People best… it's not like the crap they read in school, you know, it's, like, _good_. You aren't like the other boys."

The way she said it banked no question, because it seemed too obvious for anybody to have a question about it. Squee just wasn't like anybody, really.

_Except maybe Johnny_, Shmee's wary voice qualified. The boy shivered in the summer air.

"Well," Squee replied, admittedly distracted by Shmee's intrusion, "you aren't really like the other girls yourself."

She grunted as if she didn't care, but the look on her face was clearly pleased. "Funny thing then. I amn't like a girl, you aren't like a boy, I guess together we make a regular couple."

"Uhuh," Squee evaded. Actually, he had no idea what the girl was talking about, but she didn't seem to be hitting him—quite the contrary, she actually seemed to be enjoying his company for whatever reason. And as long as he wasn't getting punched, he wasn't planning to rock the boat.

"Will you tell me what you've got, about the wolf?" she asked, practically skipping with excitement. "Just a little bit! It can be like a sneak preview?"

Figuring it couldn't hurt, and they had a long way to walk, the boy agreed with a slight nod.

"Upon a time, and tomorrow,  
In the shadows of the great Red Wood,  
Where the river runs the sun to the sea,  
where the earth turns as it should—  
Brother Wolf lay alone,  
his hunter's eyes for stalking prey,  
turned inside and lost to time,  
hiding from the light of day…"

When he reached the end of his memory, Tyler left him to think in silence again, a curious luxury that he was more than willing to take advantage of. He missed Pepito… more than he thought he would, and Tyler's silent companionship took some of the sting out. She really _wasn't_ so bad, he admitted after a while.

The forest thinned out eventually, and they passed a few perplexing growths on the forest floor, rings of saplings sprouted up in a circle around a severed trunk. Pam called them 'fairy rings', and if they didn't seem magical, they certainly seemed strange.

A troupe of people travels slower than a squad, and a squad travels slower than a single explorer. Nevertheless, Johnny Casil's protégé's kept up a good pace since they broke camp at dawn, and by nightfall they were approaching the House. At some point, Gwen had called Tyler back to her and her brother, leaving Todd all alone—which wasn't so bad, except it was getting dark and he was near the back of the formation.

As if sensing his growing unease, a tall, lanky figure sidled up to the boy—scaring him half to death, mind you—and matched his eleven-year-old pace. The figure tisked, eyes on the mass before them, and Todd knew that it was Johnny. Fitting, he supposed.

"Hey Squeegee," the man sighed, his singular voice that odd mix of high pitch and low growl. Honestly, nobody else could dream of sounding like Nny.

"Hi... Nny," the boy answered, reminding himself that they were no longer neighbors.

They were both silent for a moment, and Todd wondered if he should be scared or not. After a certain point you got used to the murderer, but the darkness and the older man's absorbed silence had him remembering exactly who he stood beside.

"Life's not what I thought it was," Nny finally said, pensive. "It didn't get simpler, it didn't even get more complicated… it just… totally turned on its head."

"Are you talking about that story you told?" Squee asked, eyeing the horizon line. Not that much farther till home.

"Yes and no." The shadow beside him sighed again. "Squee, you're smart. What do you do if you love something but you're afraid you'll hurt it?"

"I guess you… take care of it anyhow. I mean, what's the other option? It doesn't seem right to leave—that's kind of… cowardly. But you have to be careful, too, you have to… wait, is this a person?"

Nny shrugged uncomfortably beside him, boots scuffing the ground as he walked. "Sure, why not?"

"Well then, the first thing you've got to do is warn them. Maybe you think you can hurt them, but it'll be a lot harder to do if they're already on guard. And then… yeah. You just take care of them."

"Hmm," the madman hummed, moonlight catching the panes of his face as he ventured out from under the canopy of a tree. "I wonder… I wonder a lot of things… right now I'm wondering about loyalty and love and all those Big Ideas that people like to toss around like rocks through a policeman's window, but never understand… Can you believe how many people went through life without ever stopping to define what love was, or what they really truly owed allegiance to? Can you imagine a life with no qualifiers, with no quiet moments to question the meaning of things that others take for granted, what others convince themselves they've experienced when what they feel may only be a pale imitation of meaning, until something more important comes along and demands their attention, and they become traitors because they never understood the difference?"

"Er…" poor Todd scratched his head, "was that all one sentence?"

"Probably," Johnny shrugged.

The walls appeared on the horizon line not long after that, a ring of lanterns hanging from its height the only light for a good long ways. His mom was waiting there, with the rest of the stay-behinds—mothers of small children, small children, a few defenders, Zim and Trisha… He hoped his mom was okay. She was delicate, and she needed him to watch out for her most of the time. Oh boy, he hoped Zim hadn't said anything traumatizing to her…

A shadow darted across the empty plane between the House and the approaching Troupe. It was lost as it came closer, blocked from his view by the heads and torsos of the adults standing before him. Something told him to get up to the front of the procession now, and quickly.

Breaking through the loose pack of bodies, Todd made his way to Devi's side—from here, the the darting figure was obviously a girl, each second bringing her closer. Devi, above him, quickened her own pace and tossed a command over her shoulder to somebody else, and Squee hastened after her, his tiny form going unnoticed in the darkness.

The Tallest stopped when she and the messenger were steps away, exchanging blunt words as rapid as gunfire.

"—get back now. We have her contained, but Zim is—"

"I'm fully aware of the ramifications, just tell me where to go and I'll get to it."

"We have her on the second floor, but—"

The boy glanced up at Devi, eyeing the sliver light pressed across her cheekbones and nose, her eyes steely serious and pupils dilated in the darkness. She took a step back and turned towards the mass of people still marching, almost stepping on Todd—always small for his age, but she must have really been in a hurry to actually run him over—he slid out of the way, ran beside her, bewildered and curious.

"Miss Devi," he said, between breaths, "what's… going on?"

She glanced down at the boy, and the look on her face softened a little bit, a glint of almost-humor revealed by the moonlight.

"Well," she whispered, slowing her pace drastically, "It appears we have a bit of a mutiny on our hands."

TBC


	27. A Trial by Your Peers

_The Change_

_Summary_: the world is wicked, the world is cruel. No one knows this better than humanity's emotional sewer system, Johnny C. But floods are a thing of the past, and the world is spiraling out of control. It seems like maybe, this time, the lights have gone out for good.  
_Story:_ a crossover of Johnny the Homicidal maniac, _Dies the Fire_, Invader Zim, and misc. names and places. In which the old world ends, and a new world begins.  
_Leading characters_: Johnny C., Devi D, Todd 'Squee' Castil, and the Zim and Dib duo.  
_Warnings_: Murder, language, references to cannibalism, of course Johnny C. himself, and religious stuff.

A/N: ART! If anyone is bored enough. Deviantart . com/art/Querida-JTHM-133975207

and Deviantart . com/art/The-Troupe-132992626

* * *

18th

It was kind of funny, when you thought about it. Devi Darington, "Tallest" of one of the last remaining enclaves of society, is stupid enough to run off and leave her unruliest subject alone with free run of the House only a day after they got in a stupid fight, never stopping to consider what might happen in her absence. In fact, she was lucky the whole place didn't burn down while she was gone!

At first, she wasn't going to bring Johnny along, just Pam and Edward and the messenger girl, but the man tagged along anyway and what can you do, really? So leaving all others behind with orders to "just wait, alright?", the five of them raced up to the walls and undid the padlock with fingers fumbling in the moonlight.

In the background, Devi could hear Edward cursing colorfully, but she was much more concerned with what she was going to say and where she had to go and how many people might have decided a mutiny sounded like fun on a dark June night. When the door swung open, she didn't run—although she wanted to—because that would mean she was worried over this little incident, and Tallest Devi did not worry. She had things under control.

Through the compound and into the House, down the stairs and nod to Keke with her baby, look for the other set of stairs (you _can_ still get lost in the basement, even after living there for months), down, and notice the cluster of little, little children in the corner.

"Where are your parents?" she asked them, tone softer than she ever used for adults.

The tiny black-haired one looked up at her and said, "My mommy is upstairs, but Jake's daddy is in _there._"

She looked over to where he was pointing now, a darkened hallway, and made a quick decision. "Pam, you stay here with the kids. I don't want anything to happen to them."

The dark hallway led eventually into a brighter section, where a single candle rested in its holder and illuminated a door, a door and the green boy standing guard there as if only the earth opening up below him would convince him to move.

"Zim!" Devi called.

The green boy dropped his knife in surprise. "My Tallest! You have returned from the forest of doom!"

She shook her head. "There wasn't anything particularly doomful about Humboldt. Just some exceedingly large trees. What, pray tell, is behind that door, Zim?"

"Traitors," he spat, red eyes narrowing. "Ungrateful wretched humans, horrible smelly pig creatures of STUPIDITY. They have revolted against you, my Tallest, but luckily the magnificent ZIM and his loyal compatriots were able to subdue their _pathetic_ uprising."

The messenger girl, Aviva, snorted somewhere behind Devi. "Actually," she said, "We just put a few people in headlocks and pushed a couple other people down the stairs. They weren't very well organized."

"OH SO UNORGANIZED WERE THEY!"

Devi rubbed the bridge of her nose. "So, how did it start? How long ago?"

"Last night actually," Aviva replied. "See, it started when we caught Clarice trying to get out through the main gate… she thought she was being sneaky but I guess she forgot about the sheep… she tripped over one and it started bleating and woke up the guy on duty—shouldn't have been sleeping at all, but what can you do? So Jarrod gets out the whistle and wakes everybody up, since we were all staying on the ground floor of the left house, and we come running out and that's when Clarice flipped a shit and started screaming about dictatorship and rights and Nny—"

"Nny? Really? What did she say?"

The messenger looked acutely uncomfortable, glancing at the man in question. "Er… well, she was like… I think she said, 'that idiot Devi and her psychotic-ass boyfriend are always running us around like slaves' or something to that point. Oh, and there was something in there about Johnny throwing knives at her head during practice."

"Yes… she mentioned that to me as well," Devi muttered, ignoring the man who was grinning like a--pardon the pun--maniac in the background. "So, she starts flipping out and then…?"

"Well, I guess she must have been talking about it for a while, you know, preaching to her friends. I think so, because some people started jumping up and agreeing with her, like, _immediately_, and pretty soon there were half a bunch of the psychos running around and breaking things. Zim here didn't really get what was going on at first—"

"Is _no_ _one_ allowed to simply _break_ things?"

"But once we explained the motivation _he_ flipped out and pulled an anti-terrorist on their asses, and that's about the time we started putting people in headlocks. They've been in that room for about a day now, and we brought them some food and water earlier… of course then they tried to break out, so we haven't brought them anything since."

Devi nodded. She wouldn't say it out loud, but there was no use feeding someone you will probably have to execute.

Gesturing to Zim to move aside, the proclaimed Tallest unsheathed her sword and unlocked the door, slipping inside ever so silently. A dozen eyes snapped towards her in the gloom—their candle was low, now, but she wasn't going to call for a new one just yet.

"So," she began in a quiet, low voice. "Who's the ringleader of this circus?"

"This isn't a circus!" Clarice shouted, pushing through the mess of her compatriots. "This is the end of a circus!"

"I see," Devi mused, glancing around at the five unhappy mutineers carpeting the floor. "And these are the clowns?"

"Cut the shit Devi—" there were nods from around the room, "—we want out. You don't have the right to keep us here."

"That's funny," the older woman said, "because I was under the impression that in this house, I can do anything I want. Here's the bottom line: if I think you're dangerous, I've got the right to do anything in God's name that I deem necessary. Got it?"

"That's not right!"

"Yeah, well who are you going to complain to? News flash, me and Negro are the only justice systems left in the world."

"Well then let us go to him!" Clarice demanded, "And let us see if you're really as _benevolent_ as everyone seems to think you are!"

Devi scowled. "As much as I'd be thrilled to get rid of you, there seems to be a disconnect in your plan. See, you know absolutely everything about our operation. You fucking _live_ here. If Negro gets a chance to pick your brain, the rest of us will be dead before you can _say_ 'benevolent dictatorship'."

There was silence for a long minute, and then someone spoke up from the floor. "So… what are you going to do with us?"

She sighed. "I can't let you go, but if you're just going to keep causing trouble then I can't keep you here…"

The meaning of that answer slowly sunk in, and someone started crying. Devi felt a bit like crying herself, but no, she had to think. Maybe this group wasn't entirely off the mark, or at least, maybe the others of the Troupe had been listening long enough to get paranoid. Executing Clarice would be a great way to drive a wedge between her and the people, not to mention spook anyone who had already started to worry about her having a power tip…

_Think rationally Devi. Have you done anything that wasn't necessary? No. Have you ever wronged someone due to favoritism? No. Have you ever given yourself any more than you need to fulfill your duties? Probably not. But it doesn't matter if I've never done it, people will see it anyway… and… I really _don't_ want to have to do this._

But what other options were there? She couldn't risk alienating her people, but she couldn't just let these guys free… But if she executed them, she'd look like she was elevating herself over everyone else… like a Queen, which made her think of poor Marie Antoinette…

But then, that was the answer! Don't go over the people's heads at all! God, it was so simple she could shoot herself.

"Ladies and gentlemen," she announced, startling a few who had dropped back into silence, "You're going to have a trial."

--

_Dear Die-ary,_

_Assimilation. It's happening, and it kind of scares me. Every time I blink, it seems like I stumble across a new memory--I smelled pine sap this morning and I had a flashback to medieval Germany. What the fuck?_

_Sometimes I can hear his voice. My voice. Telling me things. It's like a back-up disk with my life in it... it's got all the information and the mentality all filed away, but it lacks... operating capacity. It's not a whole computer. I'm the computer. All these years, I wished someone would come along and turn me off and fix me--and here I went and did it myself. I actually... It isn't so bad. I'm still in control, I'm still the same as I was before. Well, actually, I've been having some questions about that. Before before, I mean._

_Poor Devi. I wish I could help her, but I'm no good at getting things done--unless it involves weapons and screaming like a banshee. Fuck, I really want to do her some good. I feel useless. I'm not helping. She tells me, sometimes, about the stress and the pressure and the hard choices, like now... and I feel so useless._

_I have what I wanted. Why can't I give her what she wants?_

_June 19, 1998_

_--_

There are certain problems that have difficult solutions, questions that have no easy answer. Johnny was pondering such things in the afternoon sun, as fifty-plus members of the Troupe gathered for an impromptu trial.

The chairs used for dinner, usually stashed on the porch of the right house, were scattered across the front lawn along with the tables, though most people were simply sitting on the ground. It was kind of a mess, this curious, nervous mass of people awaiting the first ceremony of its kind.

Devi mentioned to him last night that this was actually a very important step in the creation of a new society: the foundation of the justice system. On what grounds can a leader dole out punishment or reward? What do the people hold most valued? In America it was property, but Devi had told him point blank that she was more interested in lives than furniture. What had she said?

_"The welfare of the people shall be the supreme law of the state."_

For his part, he found it ironic. If life was the most valued commodity in this world, then what an amazing criminal was he? He'd killed more people in the last ten years than Stalin had ever looked twice at. And here he was, a pillar of society. What a universe.

He glanced over at Devi, speaking in hushed tones with Tess, the both of them looking a little sunburned. That was funny.

He couldn't wait to see how the whole thing would turn out—hopefully he'd get to slit somebody's throat by the end of the day. Where _was_ the bitch anyway? Certainly not out here, unlike every other member Troupe who could walk. Fuck, there were a lot of people. He'd lost track at some point, and now even the one's they'd left behind on the trip to Humboldt were out…

Devi caught his attention now, as she marched to the front of the congregation. There was no witness stand or judge's podium, and every person here was the jury, but something about the way Devi looked out at them left no question that you had just stepped into the world's largest, most revered courtroom. She stood at ease, wrist clasped behind her back—undeniably military.

"I think you all know why you're here," she began, "and I know you all hate this as much as I do. I promise I won't keep you out here in the sun any longer than necessary. But it's got to be done, or we're just fooling ourselves. I introduce to you, the Accused."

Kevin had been standing by the House's front door, but now he stepped inside and drew out Clarice, his stony expression a wild contrast to her irate, haggard one. It was funny that she looked so ghastly, actually, since Devi had seen to it that she had everything she needed.

"Clarice Davidson," Devi intoned, turning to face the angry young woman, "You stand accused of disturbing the peace, damaging public property, inciting violent rebellion—there's a difference between that and peaceful protest—and conspiracy to share secrets with the enemy. How do you plead?"

Clarice glared, and even Johnny could feel the heat coming off that stare. "Not guilty to everything but the damaging property. I admit, I did break that vase. And chair. But the rest of it is bullshit! I didn't disturb the peace, I said what I thought and a bunch of people agreed with me, and you just can't stand that I might be right!"

"I assure you, I will uphold even _your_ freedom of speech with anything from my bones to my blood till the day I die. What I'm _not_ gonna put up with is you stirring up riots and breaking things without a thought for the rest of the people living here. We have to work together! We have to be able to trust each other, depend on each other, or we haven't got a snowball's chance in hell. If you had a problem, I submit to you that the best solution would have been to come petition me in private."

"What, so you could ignore me again? I'm not stupid, I know you don't care what I think."

Devi glanced out at the crowd, and seemed to have a thought. "Alright then, Ms. Davidson, this _is_ in fact a trial. As evidence of the grounds for your behavior, explain to the jury what exactly your problem is."

The young woman turned bright red. "You! Listen," she turned to the crowd, "this woman thinks she's your fucking emperor! She orders you around and tells you what to do and what to think and if you talk back she puts you on trial! Are you blind? You've made yourself a custom fit dictator, and she's a fucking communist! Look at that! 'We have to work together', 'We have to support each other', what's next? We have to take your sheep and give it to Harris because his sheep died? What if I don't want to give you my sheep! WHAT THEN?"

Johnny shook his head. She obviously had no idea how crazy she sounded. Who'd listen to a lunatic like that?

"Are you done?" Devi asked, a brow raised.

"No!" Clarice shouted. "Look, all I wanted was to leave! I should have the right to leave this group if I want to—you had the right to move to Canada if you didn't like America, why can't I move to Negro's city if I don't like the Troupe? Does this fucking tyrant have the right to… to _kill_ me because I don't want to stick around? What if one of you wanted to leave? She'd kill you too, _for the good of the people!_"

There was silence for a moment, utter silence that seemed to blanket the entire physical world. Then Devi spoke, quietly, but it was deafening in the empty air.

"So," she sighed, "Now I think you can understand her side of the argument. It's compelling alright, and I admit that it's made me think. But now you have to hear the other side.

"Clarice has never been a very good Troupe member. She shirks duties, she takes more than her share of food… when I've confronted her about such things, she tells me that she'd got a right to work as much as she wants, and no more, and that the food she takes is her fare share for the work she does do. I've tried to explain that _nobody_ can have a 'fair share'—we just don't have enough to go around—and that if she doesn't pull her weight, we'll _all _starve.

"She calls it communism. I call it survival. We don't have _luxury _of an individualist, capitalist society. Can you think of a way that it would work? Can you? I can't. We're not living in the pre-change land of opportunity; we're living in an apocalyptic world of endurance or death. Clarice doesn't understand that. You… the rest of you, I think you do. You've lost sons and daughters and friends and parents, your homes and your possessions and your histories to the Change. You know that the old ways don't work anymore.

"Well, the old solutions don't work anymore either. I can't let the woman immigrate. Not now. Do you know why? Some of you must understand. Negro wants to kill us all. Negro has been bombarding us with shock troops in the hopes of weakening us, feeling out a hole in our defenses. You've seen it happen, you saw us bury Dennis and Sandy. If we let Clarice join Negro, what do you think the bastard will do? He'll pump her for information. He'll learn our formations, our technique, the whole fucking invasion plan! And Clarice will fight against us, because God knows that Armando Cortez doesn't give a shit about casualties or pitting friends against friends."

The Tallest stopped and breathed at that point. She'd started so calm, and now she was on the verge of… Johnny thought it was tears, but no one else would be able to recognize the signs, the clenched fists and the closed eyes.

"So, my people, I present to you the charges again. Destruction, violent rebellion, willingness to communicate military secrets that _will_ put every one of us in mortal danger. In her defense, her physical actions would be pardonable in the old world—except the breaking chairs part. The accused stands guilty of all charges… and now… the punishment lies in your hands.

"In your hands now, I've placed the future of our… our people. Not only are you going to decide how much Negro finds out, but you're going to decide the precedent of our justice system. Think hard. Think about the principals and the repercussions. I want you to think harder about this than you've ever thought about anything before. You've got an hour to discuss it among yourselves… please nobody get in any fights."

Kevin stepped closer now and took Clarice by the arm, pulling her back towards the House. Devi walked towards Johnny, a tremble in her fingers.

"You…" the maniac struggled for words, wanting desperately to make things better for her somehow. What did she need to hear? "Devi… you did the right thing."

"Do you think so?" she whispered, moving under the shadow of the roof with him. "God, I hope so. I got up there and I just started talking… I forgot everything I'd memorized by the second sentence. That was just… emotional vomit."

Johnny reached out and caught her shaking hand in his gloved one. For the first time in ten years, he wished suddenly that he wasn't wearing them. He wanted to feel her skin, to be reminded that she was here and more importantly, he wanted _her_ to feel _him_, to be reminded that he was here with her.

"You did the right thing," he said again, "and nobody thinks you're a tyrant, I assure you of that. Clarice is a fucking psycho bitch and everybody knows it."

"I hope so—" Devi swallowed, "—but that doesn't help the fact that she actually made a few good points. I'm not… I'll tell you the truth Nny, I'm not entirely sure that I'm right."

For a moment, Johnny returned to his newly discovered memories, the days of the beginning when he had spent years without count wandering the earth, not yet aware of what it meant to be human, wondering for the first time if his kills were actually the right actions… seeing weeping mothers and children gather around the corpse of a murderer or a blasphemer, who had been only a target in Johnny's eyes but was, to them, a lover or a gentle father or a doting sister…

"I don't think," he said, looking into Devi's eyes, "anyone ever really knows what's right or what's wrong. There are no easy answers…"

But she did her best.

--

Darkness fell slowly in the summer, and the sun was only beginning to burn bloody red when Devi recalled the assembly. It had definitely been more than an hour, but she was afraid to end the debates before they reached a conclusion. An hour and a half ago, the tallest had gathered up all fifty plus of her Troupe and pulled them back outside, told them to pick one person to represent the people's will. Now she had returned.

As she walked across the lawn, yellowed in the fading light, all the men and women around her seemed to sink back into the chairs and tables and the rows that they had inhabited hours ago. When all was settled, she retook her position at the front and looked out over them.

Whatever they told her, she'd do it. Clarice had been right about one thing: people deserve the power in their government, and Devi would not take that away from them, even to save them.

"Who speaks for the people?" she called, breaking the silence.

A ripple through the mass of bodies, and Vatusia stood. Devi stared at her, uncomprehending.

"I speak for the people," the red-haired woman whispered, still loud enough for Devi to here.

Looking back at the congregation, the blue-haired woman asked, "You chose Vatusia?"

"She was pretty convincing," Ben offered, seated at the front of the mob.

"Okay," Devi sighed, shaking her head. "As speaker for the people... ha… what is the verdict in the case of… Clarice vs. The Troupe?" Devi felt a grin spread across her face, against her will. It _was_ funny.

Vatusia smiled a little too, but it quickly faded. "Clarice is accused primarily of conspiracy to share secrets with the enemy. After a long debate… and I do mean long… we have come to the conclusion: everyone here has the right to leave if they want to. However, secrets and plans are the property of the Troupe as a whole, and so no one has the right to share them…"

"Agreed. That'll be a standard."

"…So since we all agree that there is no way to keep Clarice from sharing those secrets under torture… or if Negro offers her some chocolate… and we have no right to keep her here, there is only one solution: we let her go… without the information."

Devi blinked. "Come again?"

"Simply put… we erase her memories."

Well… Devi certainly hadn't been expecting that. Execution, maybe, exile, maybe--something reasonable at least!

"Vatusia… we don't know how to do that," she pointed out, patience fraying a bit.

"Actually—" Johnny broke in, turning a lot of heads, including Devi's, "—we do. I… can do that. I know how to induce amnesia on any normal human brain, and it can last indefinitely or for less than a month. Either way, it's long enough to keep us all safe."

"How?" Devi asked, finding her arms crossed over her chest.

"I'd… uh… I'd rather not say. And if it makes you feel better, I also know which portion of the brain to stab if you want to destroy a person's personal memories. We figured that would be the backup plan, even if it's a little... messier."

Devi made a quick decision. "Okay, if that's what the Troupe decided, then that's what we'll do. Kevin, grab Clarice and bring her out."

While everyone's attention was focused on that, Devi marched over to Johnny and hissed, "You didn't tell me you could do that!"

"I just remembered," he replied, with the grace to look sheepish. "Squee's mom was talking about how it was a shame we couldn't just make her forget, and I had this flash… once upon a time, I used that technique to escape a witch trial in France… it was pretty crazy. See, there was this huge bonfire in the main square, and I—"

"Nny, please stay focused. Does it _still_ work?"

"It should," Johnny shrugged. "And I was serious about that brain thing. It involves a lot more blood, but it doesn't kill. And that's physiological, not… you know… spooky. Besides, Devi... aren't you glad?"

Devi was about to retort when Kevin opened the door and brought Clarice back out, her arms crossed and her glare reminiscent of a ticking time bomb.

"Well," Devi told her, "we've got good news and bad news. You aren't going to die… that's the good news."

"And the bad news?"

"We're going to give you amnesia. I hope you didn't have anything _too_ important stored up there."

The young woman stood gaping for a long moment.

"You mean," she finally said, "you mean you're going to make me forget… everything? You're going to… to..."

Her words stopped at the same time that her body began to move. Devi barely had time to step back before the girl went flying towards her, couldn't have blinked before Clarice was on her and they were knocked to the ground in a violent heap. The girl's contorted features filled Devi's vision, shrieking as Devi tried to get in a blow to her face.

She clung on despite a square punch in the nose and in the ribs, clawing at Devi's face like a wild thing—she felt acrylic nails dig into the soft flesh of her cheek, slicing down to the bone from the inhuman force behind them. Devi screamed.

And then she was alone on the ground, sucking in air, and she could feel blood running down her face, dripping into the dirt, and… oh Jesus…

"Devi!" Johnny was saying, and she looked up at him first, then at Kevin restraining Clarice behind him. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," she grunted, swinging to her feet—she must have looked pretty bad, if those expressions were anything to go by. She turned to look at Clarice, knowing that inside that angry young woman was a terrified little girl, and a bleeding ego, and that all-too human monster that had ripped up her face only seconds ago.

"Johnny," Devi murmured, "take care of it."

And then she walked away, feeling blood dripping down her face and the peculiar sensation of the universe moving around her, and knowing that whatever happened behind her, she wouldn't let herself be sorry.

Not sorry at all.

TBC


	28. Three Words: Let Me Help

_The Change_

_Summary_: the world is wicked, the world is cruel. No one knows this better than humanity's emotional sewer system, Johnny C. But floods are a thing of the past, and the world is spiraling out of control. It seems like maybe, this time, the lights have gone out for good.  
_Story:_ a crossover of Johnny the Homicidal maniac, _Dies the Fire_, Invader Zim, and misc. names and places. In which the old world ends, and a new world begins.  
_Leading characters_: Johnny C., Devi D, Todd 'Squee' Castil, and the Zim and Dib duo.  
_Warnings_: Murder, language, references to cannibalism, of course Johnny C. himself, and religious stuff.

_an:_ According to Star Trek, the three most romantic words in the world are as follows: "Let me help". Keep that in mind.

Also, Squee's ballad can be found in its entirety, which is somewhat epic, here: http:/ desdemonakakalose. /art/Song-of-Death-167628704

* * *

Two days. They had two days before the attack.

Squee looked up at his mother, who was sitting on her pallet with her legs curled up under her, playing strange, disjointed melodies on a guitar that had been salvaged months ago before tension really mounted with the City. He sighed, a little disturbed by his mother's demeanor.

Ever since that talk with Devi, his mother had slowly become more and more maternal. From what he'd seen with other people's parents, she still wasn't an ideal mother, but she _talked_ to him now. She actually looked at him without crying. She even stopped reminding how his being born ruined her life. It almost made _him_ want to cry sometimes. It was too good to be true.

Despite the candles and the fortified wall, and the awkward bathrooms and the fact that he was living in somebody's basement… this was pretty close to what he'd always dreamed of. The perfect life. No crying mothers, no zombified classmates, no daily trauma, no emotionally abusive fathers. It was sad, he decided, that the closest he'd ever been to normal was the result of his father's murder and the end of human society as he knew it…

He still dreamed about the day Johnny killed his dad. Usually, it was of being duct-taped to the floor and the candles all around him, and Shmee screaming silently at his side, threatening his dad with all sorts of things that Squee didn't completely understand, except that they scared him in a whole different way. Even when things got disturbing and dangerous, as they did all too often in his life, Shmee never actually raised his voice—not like that. Come to think of it, why had Shmee gone quiet lately, anyways? He still didn't know, but he missed the bear that had been his only friend for so many years.

Occasionally, though, the dreams were different—about the knife at his father's throat, and the blood spraying across the room… Johnny grinning at him with the weapon still in hand, Squee attached to the floor…

The boy looked away from his mother and sighed. He couldn't explain it, but he just wasn't scared of the Scary Neighbor—Um, Nny—like he used to be. Ever since he killed Squee's dad, it was as if the fear was steadily draining away, replaced with curiosity and understanding, to a point, and… maybe affection? It appeared that patricide hadn't stopped Squee from starting to care about the psychopath, and he could—perhaps—guess why.

He was only ten years old, after all, if an unusually intelligent ten-year-old. He supposed, to himself, that he'd never really _had_ a father to kill. Not really. He'd had a man who shared half his genes and paid the electrical bill, but never a man who cared about him, wanted the best for him, protected him, asked him how his day was, appreciated his talents, believed he was important, wanted him around…

With a jolt, Squee realized that he'd been describing Nny. Holy Cow. The only "fatherly" thing Johnny had never done was tell him he loved him—and he wouldn't even say that to Devi.

Once again, the boy looked up at his mother, this time because she'd stopped playing a few moments ago and he was suddenly aware of the silence.

"Squee," she said, quietly, "What are you thinking about?"

"Nny," he answered, just as quietly. He could hear someone in the hallway outside their room, shoes making clicking noises that indicated a woman. Probably Tess. She'd been up and down the hall all day.

Vatusia nodded. She played a dark-sounding minor chord. "What about him?"

Squee looked down. "That's he's… kind of… the closest thing to a father I have."

A shift on the bed, and then the chord repeated, blending into a sad melody. The dark chord again, this time with another note under it, low and… secretive.

"He killed Daddy, you know," Squee whispered, knowing that no one had ever explained the truth to his mom, though she had probably guessed by now.

The melody turned dark and then heart-breaking. He wasn't sure how his mom could do that, turn the music into emotions. He'd never heard anything like it before.

"He was saving me," Squee went on, "I was… going to get hurt. It was scary. So scary. And then Nny walked in, and he was scary too, but he let me go… and he promised he wouldn't hurt me. And he didn't."

The notes turned softer now, maybe hopeful.

"He took care of us," he offered, not wanting to disappoint the hopeful tune. "He protected us until the wall went up. We were right to trust him, even if he did kill daddy."

Sad again. Wistful, almost, but mostly regretful.

Squee reached up and put his hand on top of his mother's, stilling the music. "Do you miss him?"

Vatusia sighed. "Sometimes. I never loved him, but he took care of me when no one else would… and we shared so much… they say that the only thing stronger than love is shared trauma."

"Then I guess the whole Troupe is a real family by now."

His mother laughed despite herself, the sound rusty from disuse. "Yeah, you could look at it that way."

She shook off his hand and played again, the dark chord blending into the music from before, the sadness and the darkness and the heartache, secrets, hope, regret. It wound into an empty place in his heart and curled up there, the place that should have belonged to his father.

"Nny's song," his mother explained, voice a murmur. "Weirdly enough, I think he's taken better care of you than I have."

And the melody pulled on Squee, deep inside of him, and he began to think of words to match the music.

Deep in the bowels of the basement, Devi was testing the weight of a spear. She swung it forward and dipped right, turning in an intricate dance that seemed natural from months of daily weapons practice. It wasn't quite like the sword she was used to, that she had spent so much time with, that now felt like more than a tool—she could see why warriors of long ago used to name their swords.

Turning back to Zim and Trisha, she nodded and tossed the spear their way. "I think it's a good start. Johnny should know a thing or two about it, and we can set a couple people up with a crash course tonight, some last minute practice tomorrow."

Spears were a good weapon to invest in, because unlike swords, they required only enough metal to make the pointy-stabby end. Wood was easy enough to steal from rakes and brooms—she was wary of plastic, since she wasn't sure how hot the metal was when they attached it to the end. Nasty melted plastic was bad enough, but a load of spearheads sized to fit useless hunks of it sounded like a nightmare.

Just as she was about to turn to a different shelf, the door swung open. Johnny Casil strode into the room, preoccupied gaze landing on Devi.

"You wanted to see me?"

"Oh," she said, "Yeah. I was just going to go up and look for you, actually. Is it just me, or do you always show up just as I'm about to go find you?"

Johnny looked at her. "It's a side effect."

"Ah." Devi turned back to Zim and Trisha and pointed to Zim. "Would you grab our project out of the back?"

The green boy saluted smartly and then dashed back to the rows of experimental projects, grabbing something wrapped in a faded green rag from a higher shelf—he had to extend those strange spider legs to reach it, too. Devi said nothing, well aware of how he detested being reminded of his height in any way. And the kid was irritating as hell when he got pissy.

She took the bundle from him and handed it to Johnny, the edges of her lips curling into a bit of a smirk. "Happy birthday, Johnny Casil."

"Devi," he scowled. "I wasn't _born_, you know that. And even if I had been, it was a long, long time before the Roman calendar so I don't think you could know the date."

She rolled her eyes. "Uh-huh. Stop being dull and logical, Nny, it doesn't suit you. Besides, what if I told you that today's date really does mean something?"

He looked warily down at the large bundle in his hands. "What?"

"It's exactly a year from the first day you walked into the bookstore," she informed him, all business. "In any case, you happen to be alive, and every other living thing on earth has a birthday. Why not you?"

His eyes looked a little shiny now, and she fought down the impulse to laugh. He'd probably think she was making fun of him.

"Just open it, Johnny," the Tallest ordered, hands on her hips. "Or I'll schedule in some emergency training sessions with Billy, and you can try to convince him that there's no such thing a 'poet not a warrior' for the… what? Eighteenth time?"

Looking up warily, Johnny went ahead and unwrapped the gift. Within the layers of cloth lay two curved blades—scythes—with polished black symbols inlaid on their handles.

Personally, Devi thought they were beautiful pieces of weaponry, with sheen and razor sharp edges, and a graceful, deadly curve…

Johnny stared. His finger traced the outline of the symbol, shaped a bit like an empty square, missing one corner. "What's that?" he asked, curious.

"Zim says it's the symbol for the military commander… second in command for… uh… what's the opposite of domestic affairs?"

Johnny shrugged. "You had this made for me?"

"Yeah. I know you gave your sword to that girl… and you're the commander. You need a good weapon to lead the attack."

"But scythes?" he asked, a little wonder in his voice. He set one down and picked the other up, running a gloved finger along the edge.

She replied drolly, "You're the Grim Reaper, aren't you?"

He looked up at her as if he were about to say something, but no words came out. Instead, he just _looked_, as if he wasn't quite sure that she was real. Come to think of it, he'd probably never gotten a gift before—not in a couple hundred years, at least. She smiled a little sadly. His life hadn't been a happy one, she knew that, but she kept forgetting the real tragedy… that eternal isolation he'd lived since the beginning of mankind. It was mind boggling. She wouldn't believe it, except the man himself was standing here in front of her, with that it's-too-good-to-be-true-and-now-someone's-going-to-pinch-me expression.

It made her heart hurt a little bit.

"They match, see?" she held out her own sword, wrapped from the hilt down in leather. "We're in this together. There's your proof."

His attention shifted back down to the blades. "Proof," he murmured, "Something to hold onto. That won't fade away."

She nodded. Trisha coughed in the background, snapping her back to the rest of the world more violently than she liked. Glancing back at the two blacksmiths, Zim had his bright pink eyes averted and Trisha was looking reproachfully at the unusually emotional display.

Well, it _was_ unusual. Devi had to at least _appear_ to be a bit more than human to her people—to give them stability, confidence, reassurance—and she had avoided all interpersonal contact beyond a compassionate leader or a loyal friend since the start of this adventure. Being Tallest was, in a way, a bit like sacrificing your humanity. In all the time since, she hadn't shown her fear or doubt to anyone. Well, anyone except Nny.

Perhaps it would be startling for them to see her display any real, deeply personal emotion.

"You guys can head up for lunch now, if you want," she told them, tone leaving very little room for protest. _Can't a woman have some privacy around here?_

They scampered off quickly, leaving Johnny and Devi alone behind them. The madman in front of her was still mesmerized by the shining metal.

"You've always had my back, Nny," she said, quietly. "Even when I didn't want you there. Well, now I have yours."

"You don't owe me anything," he insisted, clutching at the scythe.

"No," she agreed, "I don't. But I _will_ be there for you. Because I want to be. And you can count on it."

Devi smiled, then, a real, sad-happy smile.

"And Johnny…" she went on, turning towards the door, "If you ever have a problem, just… let me help, okay?"

And then she left the room.

_Dear Die-ary,_

_"Let me help" she says._

_I can't remember the last time I was this happy. I don't think I ever was. I remember so much now, but I don't remember anything like this. This is happiness. This is peace. This is… fuck, I think this is love. Pure, distilled, love. And it's pouring out of my cells like some sort of supernatural goo, dripping all over the furniture and staining the carpet with happiness. It's disgusting. It's incredible. It's… nice._

_She has my back. I think I could take on every soldier in Negro's army with her at my back._

_For the first time in my life, I don't _need_ help._

_June 20th, 1998_

The twenty-first of June dawned cool and gray, as Dib sat on the front step of the left house, wishing that he could see the sunrise beyond the walls. He was sure that it was beautiful and yellow, maybe even a little bit misty as the morning dew rose up off the grass. It was lovely, he imagined. The sort of thing he'd never thought about before, preferring late, dark nights on his computer to early morning nature.

There was a thump on the concrete beside him as someone took a seat.

"Hey Zim," he sighed, lacking the energy to turn to his companion.

"Greetings, Dib-smell. Why is your head today not only large but also vertical?"

"You mean, why the long face?"

"LIES! But yes."

Dib sighed, reaching down into the sparse grass to pull a few blades free. "It's complicated. I don't think you would understand."

"Dib-creature," the alien said, almost reproachfully, "do you question the intelligence of Zim?"

Smiling a little, the human replied, "Only about ninety percent of the time."

"Silence, worm-baby! Explain to Zim what has you so long in the facial cortex."

Sighing, he stopped to think about it. Why _was_ he so downhearted this morning? He had spent most of the night awake in their room, staring up at the ceiling in the cave-darkness. For all he knew, there had been no ceiling—he hadn't _seen_ it. And he thought about his father, and his mysteriously non-existent mother, and the kids that he knew in Hi-Skool, and all the people here in the Troupe.

"I don't want to lose anyone else," he explained, finally, breaking blades of grass between his fingers. "I lost my dad and I almost lost my sister, and all the people I've ever really known—besides you. I mean, you and Gaz are really all I've got left."

Out the corner of his eye, Dib could see Zim shifting, pulling his arms up onto his knees in an ironically human gesture. He'd picked up a lot from living here the last four years, and it wasn't just earthling mannerisms. Dib liked to say that he was going native.

"And you are Zim's last, as well. I cannot contact the massive, nor any of my people, and Irk knows where Skooge was when the energy systems of your planet malfunctioned. We are alone, you and I."

"Pretty much."

Somewhere behind them a lone bird chirped, questioning in the background of the silent morning. There were never birds in the city before—real birds, not pigeons—and he never thought he'd see one at home, without venturing into the woods or visiting an alternate dimension.

"You aren't going to fight, are you?" Dib asked, scattering the bits of grass at his feet.

"…I was," the alien replied, almost a question.

"Why?"

Zim snorted in some peculiar way that apparently circumvented the need for a nose. "I _owe_ such allegiance to my Tallest. It is an invader's highest honor to forfeit their life in support of their commander's cause! Should irreversible harm befalm Zim's Pak, Zim's life stream will be accepted with much glory into the memory banks, and oh what magnificence there shall be in the next world!"

"Irkens have an afterlife?" Dib prodded, surprised. He figured those kind of beings would be… beyond that.

"Such matters are not typically spoken of, but yes. Yes they do."

"Kind of like the seventy virgins…" the human mused to himself. "I guess any culture that survives by conquest kinda has to have a loyalty bonus at the end of it."

"Virgins? Zim wants nothing of your _filthy_ huyuman mating rituals!"

"I wasn't talking about you!"

"Or _were_ you?"

"I wasn't, Zim! I wasn't!"

"Fine."

They sat in silence for a while, alternately pondering what a strange word "wasn't" was, and the universality of an afterlife. Finally, Dib looked back at his enemy.

"Do you _have_ to go? I mean, can't you do something… honorable… without getting yourself killed?"

"I probably won't actually die, ya know."

"Yeah, I know. You're infuriatingly difficult to kill, believe me, I _know_. But what if this is the time you finally roll a two instead of a seven?"

"What is this rolling you speak of?"

"Dice. You know, rolling sevens? It means… never mind. What I'm saying is… what if you don't get lucky this time?"

"Eh. I die, my Pak tries to find a new host for my glorious Zim-mind… I think it will be fiiine. Do not worry your pitiful human head."

"I'm not worried!" Dib defended. So he was lying, so what? Zim didn't need to know that.

"Well good!"

"Good!"

And there was silence again.

The paranormal investigator looked down at his hands, examining the nails bitten down to the quick and the ink-stains on the fingertips, and the scars on the backs of his knuckles from that time Zim trapped him in a glass bubble twenty miles under the ocean… things were so easy back then.

"Look, Zim. Don't get killed, okay?"

"Yes, yes, Zim will not injure himself. Cease your foolish burning with lurve for the Zim."

"What? No, you stupid alien! I just don't want you to get permanently dead…ified."

Zim gave him a disbelieving look.

"What? We're friends, aren't we? And besides… besides you and Gaz…" -He left the sentence hanging, staring down at his feet. If he didn't look up, Zim wouldn't notice how serious he actually was.

The invader sighed. "I won't get hurt, Dib-monkey. And in return, you must do the same—no setting the house on fire, however much you may wish it, eh?"

"Right," the boy replied, still staring at his feet.

Beside him, Zim stood and, glancing back down at him, gave his companion a hard smack on the shoulder.

"Buck up, soldier!" he commanded, "There's war to be had and the Tenna-human is making muffins! You will be cheery or Zim shall electrocute you repeatedly."

"I'm sure you'd love that," Dib scowled, but it was difficult not to smile instead. He stood and stretched, back snapping into place. It was true that Tenna had discovered muffin mix stockpiled in a cupboard down stairs—Johnny had no idea what it was doing there, either—but it was funny how Zim seemed to think snack foods were the answer to everything.

"Come, Dib-beast, we are late for the foodening!"

He really did smile, now, with Zim marching ahead of him like the heroic commander returning home from battle. He hoped, quietly, as if it were a prayer—he hoped that Zim was right, and there really was nothing to worry about.

He wasn't sure he could stand that kind of loss.

-Z?-

A strange air had settled over 777 Dormir Street. Steel flashed in the courtyard, children raced through the months-uncut grass outside the wall, shrieking with the kind of violent glee that only children can get away with. A line of teenagers leaned against the shadow of a wall, sober and unseeing. Twenty-somethings came and went faster than they needed, going nowhere of importance, all high on sustained adrenalin. Mothers and fathers with determined glint in their eyes moved with deliberate slowness, swords and knives buckled at their hips.

No one had seen Devi since the night before. No one had been brave enough to ask Johnny. It was generally agreed on that their leader would reappear when the time was right… whenever that was.

At the corner of the far wall, Squee Casil had a can of paint and a paintbrush. And the ten-year-old stood on a chair, brush in hand, painting words onto the side of the fortress. He already had a good two stanzas up. Honestly, he preferred writing stories, but poetry was so much more compact, universal, and it was a lot easier to graffiti. It had a natural rhythm that seemed to drive itself. Besides, the others had kind of come to expect it.

Squee had good penmanship—he took pride in it. He liked the way that the words flowed together without being cursive, the extra flourish he could put into capital letters now that words were as long as his head.

Someone walked up behind him and he resisted the urge to have a spasm of pure fear. He was fairly safe here with the Troupe, but habits of a lifetime die hard.

"Hey Squeegee!" Johnny's singular voice greeted him. "What'cha doing?"

"Er…" The boy thought about it. "Writing?"

"Cool," the madman said, apparently in one of his irrationally elated moods, and probably because he was about to go kill a bunch of people in the city. Squee shuddered.

"…It's about you," Squee offered, hoping that the good mood would cancel out any weird reactions. After all, he had to tell him _sometime_.

"Huh."

Squee looked back up at the beginning, reading it to himself. It matched his mother's song, with a little bit of rewriting on the part of the music. He had run out of paper to write on a couple days ago… and there wasn't any room left on his arm after all the editing, so the wall had seemed the only logical place to set down a final draft.

"When the first man prayed to his God, and begged for the very first time," Johnny read, under his breath, "for an end to his pain, for hatred, for revenge sweeter than wine…"

_I was born._

_And the stars burned with their questions, _

_and the earthly fires roared in answer,_

_and the goddess breathed a man_

_from the winds of the tropic of cancer_

_who would never die._

Squee held his breath, daring to paint the next word… he would need to get off the chair for the next line…

"For me…" the madman breathed, a question in his voice.

"Sure. You know, for luck. Pam says that people thinking about you is good protection, and… well, it's a good story."'

Squee jumped down from the seat, chancing a real look at the man behind him. The dark-rimmed eyes were searching, a little lost, and the boy wanted to give him some kind of answer—preferably one that wouldn't launch Nny into an angry rampage. Sometimes things got lost in translation with Nny, but he'd only been trying to give something back somehow, trying to understand. Untangling threads.

"It's a… it's a complement, Nny. Like a gift."

"A gift," he repeated, strange tone confusing Squee.

"Um… yeah. Please don't be angry, Mr—Nny. I wasn't trying to be mean or anything."

"No," the older man shook his head, "I'm not mad Squeegee. Just a little… surprised. After all, what are the chances? What are the chances of a second chance, when all the world seemed so incurably bleak—the chances that I, of all people, I, the prodigal son of mankind, would get what I'd always wanted after all?"

"What?" the boy asked, bewildered.

"It's almost as if history is repeating itself, as if I am the archetype reborn again and again—but I was never reborn! And I'm real! HA, take that Jung! None of that metaphorical bullshit for me… what was I talking about?"

"My poem? I think?"

"Oh." Johnny looked back at the string of words across the wall, now almost proud. He looked back at the boy standing before him and grinned. "That's fucking great. Now, Squeegee, you make sure you come and ask me about anything you need to know, alright? I want this to be as accurate as possible—of course, since it's an allegory it can't be entirely right. What did they used to say? The perfect map is the actual land itself, but of course that's perfectly useless. The perfect story is the event itself, but yes, that's pretty useless. You need a map, a representation, a… a fable. There's a lesson to be learned in there, I can just feel it. Feel it in my bones! Like some kind of strange, bone-burrowing parasite!"

Squee's head immediately filled with images of bone-burrowing parasites. _As if the House wasn't terrifying enough to sleep in before_…

Then Johnny looked back down at the (now horrified) boy. "Hey, do you mind if I… try something out? It wo'n't hurt, I swear."

"Um…" the ten-year-old looked up. "What kind of something?"

"Ever since I got my memories back," the maniac explained, taking a seat himself, "I've been getting these _feelings_. I can almost sense when there's something important, something connecting this moment to yesterday. I've always been able to feel what people are like on the inside—usually they're shitty—but now I think I might be able to tell what made them like they are. That would have been nice to know two years ago, when I was bat-shit insane."

"…You're not insane now?" Squee asked, in spite of himself.

"Well, yes," his once-neighbor shrugged, "depending on how you define insane. Like, I still really want to kill people. A lot. But you know, it's funny, people don't seem to have a problem with that so much any more. Why, just later today I'm going to go out and murder scores of people in thoughtless, violent ways! And nobody has a problem with it!"

The boy neglected to mention that it was called "war", and it had been going on the whole time—just far away, instead of two blocks down the road.

"So anyways, I want to try the spooky thing on you. You, a small boy with probably no mental barriers to speak of and no way to protect yourself from the unspeakable horrors of my mind if something goes wrong. Sound like fun?"

"Um…."

"Great!"

Squee hated it when he got in these freaky good moods.

The older man sat down on the dirt in front of him and closed his eyes, breathing deeply. The manic happiness drained away, little by little, leaving an emptiness behind that didn't seem eerie so much as… unusually _natural_. Squee could feel something tugging at his mind, and he closed his eyes in response.

With the world blocked out, he could almost see Johnny knocking at the door of his mind, shuffling nervously on the threshold as he waited for someone to open up. Sighing to himself, the boy let him in—and in rushed the strangest sensation. It was a bit like holding hands with someone, but in his head, and he could see/feel Johnny looking around, tugging at memories of Shmee and Pepito…

_"The anti-Christ? Really?"_

And then Nny was past that, digging deeper, tracing a cord that trailed out from under Squee and back into the past, a thread pulled taunt through era after era, life after life, consciousness after consciousness, made up of experiences leading into more experiences and the very matter of his cells…

And there was a flash, a moment, that might have come from Johnny or from that thread, of a young man—a native American, with grey eyes and a lopsided smile, who, like Squee, could see things that other people couldn't, could reach out and touch the untouchable, who drew the worst of humanity to him despite the best of intentions, who was unfortunate, scared, brave…

The boy was Johnny's son. And _his_ son's son, and of his son, and on… was Squee.

There was a sort of mental gasp, a mental tripping backwards, and then the whole thing snapped off and left Squee alone in his head, suddenly aware of the sunlight seeping through his eyelids.

One eye flashed open, and Johnny was sitting in front of him still, staring at nothing. Shocked, obviously.

Squee coughed. "Well, I guess you were right about it being relevant."

"I…" the maniac stopped, "You… he… that was…"

"Um, yeah."

"But he… he _died_… the whole village…"

The boy propped one elbow on his leg and rested his chin in his hand. "Apparently not."

"Yess…" Johnny looked back to his former-neighbor. "Apparently not. You seem to be taking this well."

Squee shrugged. He didn't feel like it was a good idea to mention that Johnny was basically his father anyways, regardless of blood or lack there of. It seemed… mushy. And you didn't get into cloudy emotions with Johnny anyways, as a general rule.

"Well… you know how bad things are always happening to me? I guess I know where I got it from."

Johnny tilted his head to the side, blinking. Then he started to laugh. The sound was so delighted that, despite himself, Squee actually found himself laughing too.

"This is amazing," Nny said between gulps of air. "Really, really amazing."

Nodding and laughing in the bright summer afternoon, the ten-year-old descendant almost managed to forget what was set to happen in just hours.

TBC


	29. I Prefer Tallest

_The Change_

_Summary_: the world is wicked, the world is cruel. No one knows this better than humanity's emotional sewer system, Johnny C. But floods are a thing of the past, and the world is spiraling out of control. It seems like maybe, this time, the lights have gone out for good.  
_Story:_ a crossover of Johnny the Homicidal maniac, _Dies the Fire_, Invader Zim, and misc. names and places. In which the old world ends, and a new world begins.  
_Leading characters_: Johnny C., Devi D, Todd 'Squee' Castil, and the Zim and Dib duo.  
_Warnings_: Murder, language, references to cannibalism, of course Johnny C. himself, and religious stuff.

an: the last time Johnny rode a horse? When he was attacking Cruzito's camp waaay back in the day. Dark night. Wish there had been a chance for me to write it in.

* * *

As it turned out, those ponies were actually horses. The fact that they had grown in the last four months was a bit of a tip-off, but then again, Tess had been trying to tell them that since the day they picked the quadrupeds up.

Devi patted the neck of her own, rather small, steed. It was the temperamental vanilla that they'd had so much trouble with a few months back—for some reason, it rather liked her and rather _disliked_ Tess. Devi found it amusing, though Tess just found it irritating.

"I'm the fucking stable master," she had growled earlier, tossing her rag to the ground. "If she thinks she can ignore me, she's got another thing coming."

And in the end, she still hadn't been able to load up those supplies—instead, she dragged the vanilla over to Devi and threw the reins at her.

"Maybe she'll listen to you!" the younger woman shouted before turning on her heel and stalking off.

That was two hours ago, and as far as Devi could see, the horse had been perfectly compliant since.

The Tallest sheathed her sword and, hooking one foot in the stirrup, bounced atop the temperamental mode of transport. The only advantage to having a steed actually shorter than you was that it wasn't very hard to mount—the downside was that it would get tired very quickly. Lucky thing that she wouldn't be riding for long…

She looked to her left and noticed Johnny looking skeptically at his intended horse, hand tangled in its pitch-black mane. She gave him a questioning look.

"I haven't ridden a horse in four hundred years. And don't tell me it's like riding a bicycle because I know what a fucking bicycle looks like and this isn't it."

"I wasn't going to," she scowled. "Johnny, get your ass on the pony before I go over there and _make_ you."

Grumbling, the skinny madman climbed up onto his horse's back and took an uneasy seat there, as the animal chewed away at the grass below him. Devi sighed and shook her head. It would be ridiculous to expect Johnny to act reasonable, and she did have other things to do. So, turning the vanilla away from the wall, she took a quick trot around the fields to get a feel for the creature under her make-shift saddle. The strides were a little jarring but there was a rhythm to it and, eventually, she remembered what Tess had told her about moving _with_ the horse. Okay, she could manage that.

Of course, she didn't want to tire the thing out before the party even started… She turned back towards the wall.

Nervous? She was nervous. Incredibly so. The plan itself was simple, but every other thought in her head was another idea of how easily they could fuck it up.

She trotted through the gate and felt immediately all eyes trained on her. Well, while she had their attention…

"It's just about time, people," she announced, a little droll. "Gather up and meet outside the wall. Now."

The rush of movement around her went almost unnoticed as her eyes caught on the pocket of remaining people—the only ones who were guaranteed to survive the evening's ordeal. Five teenagers, ten children, Kiki and her baby, Vatusia and Watson… one of the teenagers was Dib, trading an awkward goodbye with the green kid. Honestly, she hadn't wanted to let him come along, but after he threw a fit to end all fits and ranted a lot besides, she'd given in and included him in the war party. After all, he did have those spider leg-looking appendages to fight with, and he was very good at causing mayhem and destruction. A little too good for comfort, actually.

The party gathered up outside the walls, Devi watching as they filtered in. There was something about all these people lined up in their leather armor, swords or knives at their hips, quivers of arrows across their backs, something that made her throat dry and her heart speed up. Where was Johnny? She couldn't lead the formation without him.

Tenna sidled up beside her horse, eternally carefree smile flashing in the still sunlit evening.

"Hey Devi," she said, tugging on the stirrup, "we ran out of whiskey. What do you want me to pack instead?"

The Tallest glanced over at the medical wagon, where Gwen and her brother and their apprentice were checking supplies. Between the bandages and the disinfectant, she couldn't imagine where Tenna would put any more provisions, even if she had them.

"Just make do with what you have. You all armed?" she asked, critically surveying the crowd before her.

"Mhm. We've got three people waiting on their spears, though—where'd you put those anyway?"

"Front porch of the left house," she replied, eyes now trained on the gateway, where Johnny was leading his horse out into the fields. The two of them were the only ones with transportation, seeing as that was all they could spare and all that was strictly needed. She hoped that no one would see it as her pulling rank. She fingered the bandages pasted to her cheek, still painful—ever since Clarice, she'd been paranoid about that.

Her breath evened out as Johnny made his way towards her. Okay, everything was ready now.

"Alright, Troupe," she called out, quieting what little chatter there had been. "We've been over this enough times, we've been waiting for a good solid week, we've been training since the Change itself. I'd say we're ready, wouldn't you?"

There was a general 'hell yes' of consent.

"Then I say it's about time we gave Negro a run for his fancy black jacket—and remember, we want them scared of us. Scared rather than dead, whenever it's reasonable. I don't think we should have any problems with that… you guys scare the shit out of _me_ sometimes. So big smiles, everybody! Let's go kick some ass."

A cheer went through the ranks, and smiling, though it pulled on her injured cheek, Devi nudged her horse into motion. The sky above them was yellow with afternoon sunshine, and something in the world felt unexpectedly _right._ Well, who was she to blow against the wind?

Johnny's heartbeat thudded through his chest as he swung, metal crescents blurring into streaks of gray before him. His opponent went down heavily, spewing blood that was the same color as the far western horizon. Then it was back to the other one, slashing with one hand and the other, mad twirling dance that paused just long enough for him to catch a glimpse of the absolute horror on each of their faces. Priceless. No matter how long he lived or what revelations he suffered, he'd never get enough of that fear.

-Z?-

First contact was twenty minutes ago, at the inner edge of the suburbs. Devi, riding beside him at the head of the formation, had called out, "Drop your weapons and we'll spare you!"

He shook his head at the memory, rounding on a new enemy. That woman was too nice for her own good sometimes… or maybe he was too harsh? Well, reality was subject anyways, and so were morals. The fact of the matter was that it meant a lot of weaponless people were cowering in the doorways of buildings, and Johnny couldn't mess with them. Technically. Of course, no one would notice if just a few of the more cowardly ones didn't walk off the battle field in one piece.

One scythe caught on a woman's neck bone, and the madman had to struggle to free it. Beheading was difficult work, and it took a lot of muscle besides—note to self, avoid that from now on, dull edges are not to be trifled with.

Between swings, he glanced around at the field, checking how many of his people were down yet—one, and Gwen was slinking across the war zone presumably to reach him—and how many of the enemy they had felled so far. A lot. And that was ignoring the cowering masses with swords and cutlery scattered at their feet.

Johnny had been in a few battles in his eons, but he had never fought anything quite like this. Between the rows of houses and the total lack of finesse, it was more like a brutal street brawl than actual combat.

He felt someone behind him and twisted one leg, bringing the rest of his body around with it, one booted foot arcing through the air. The steel toes caught someone in the throat and sent them crashing through a window. A good number of redteeth who had been closing in around him stopped at that and, looking back and forth, threw down their weapons. Disloyal bastards. Still, a few of the stupider ones kept coming and Johnny had the joy and privilege of slicing out their various internal organs. It was a shame he didn't have time to properly match their manners of life to their methods of death, but Devi needed him and he really did have to catch up with her.

Relishing the fearful expressions around him as he dashed off, Johnny scanned the melee for that distinctive mass of blue and black hair. A stirring of worry caught him in the gut. Not here…

Weaving and ducking down the street, the murderer leapt onto a fence for a better view. No, no, no… there! He kicked off and landed gracefully somewhere in the epicenter of the battle, rushing towards the place where he had spotted her. It had been an accident that they got separated from their horses, after all, and they needed to stick together if her plan was going to work at all.

He reached the Tallest just as her opponent landed a slash to the head, her legs crumpling up beneath her as she made a pained noise. Instantly, he was between her heavily breathing form and the bastard with the kitchen knife—fuck, he was going to pay for that.

Two scythes swung simultaneously, both hooking into the flesh over the man's heart. With barely a thought, Johnny ripped his arms in opposite directions, tearing open the chest down to the red-glistening rib-cage. As the body toppled over, Johnny turned back to his leader.

"Devi, fuck, Devi. Are you alright?"

The woman clutched at her bleeding head, teeth clenched in pain. Barely, she nodded.

There was a flash of brown and then Tenna was at her other side, yanking a spool of thread from her pocket—already threaded, the needle slid into the skin at Devi's temple and out again, making quick, crude stitches. There was no smile, no words at all, just the blood on her dark fingertips and the black thread tied quickly against Devi's skin. Then she looked up at Johnny with cold, angry eyes.

"What is this?" she hissed, as Devi moaned in pain between them. "You were supposed to _protect_ her, you incompetent, selfish blood-whore."

Johnny's eyes went wide. "What?"

"God, I knew I shouldn't have let you do this. I shouldn't have trusted you. I'm gone for one minute and you go and get her nearly killed!"

"Tenna, you better shut the fuck up-"

"Ha, I'd like to see you make me. If you can't even keep the woman you love safe, you're not just moron, you're incompetent. You don't have a chance against me—damn, I shouldn't have let her out of my sight, a year and a half of protecting her and she's out in five minutes! I'll kill you Johnny. If she dies, I'll fucking kill you. I don't even care. I'll cut off your balls and then I'll _kill_ you."

"You—"

"Shut up!"

Johnny's hand went for his scythe with the intent to brutally maim if not murder—how dare she talk to him like that! No one…

Devi took his hand and thoroughly distracted him.

"Nny," she groaned, "I need you to get me out of here. We're going to get trampled if we…stay like this. I need a minute to, to rest."

With a deep breath, Johnny nodded and helped her to her feet, sliding an arm around her shoulders to stabilize them. Before he pulled them both away, he glanced back at Tenna whose dark expression clearly read, _we're not done here_.

_Well good_, he thought to himself. _Don't think I'm going to let you get away with that._

Together, he and Devi limped behind a large white van, covered with a good coating of dust. They stayed there for a long time, as the color slowly returned to her face and the battle died down. The Troupe had been fighting mostly official black-coats since the first few minutes of the fight—apparently, the sound of steel on steel drew more soldiers from patrol everywhere within hearing distance. But, finally, it was sounding like the last of them were running out.

When the silence had gone on for a few minutes, Devi looked at him and wiped the remaining blood from her skin. She got to her feet a little unsteadily, and taking a deep breath, walked around the side of the house as if nothing at all was wrong. Johnny darted after her.

A quick survey told them all they needed to know. No casualties—unsurprising, these were the minute men, crafted with a dull tool from the cloth of suburban America. And the Troupe had been trained by Johnny himself. Just as they had expected, the only advantage held by the red-teeth regulars was sheer numbers, and with surprise and a good strategic placement even that could be negated.

"Battle of the Three Hundred," Devi murmured. Johnny nodded, familiar with the story.

Turning to the mass of the Troupe, all stretching or cleaning blades now, Devi clapped her hands. "They all dead?"

As the replies called out, Johnny looked back to the woman beside him. Frankly, she looked dangerous—the fresh stitches on her temple still leaking blood and the bandages over her cheek stained red, old wounds broken open by a bad fall. The same fall had shaken up her hair, left it tangled around her bloody face, and he was reminded in a flash of something he had seen in Central America, five hundred years ago… He found that he didn't much like thinking of Devi and the first Aztec invasion together, not at all.

While he was caught in the past, the Troupe had started moving again, marching through the inner neighborhoods like so many prowling wolves—a pack following its alpha female, sniffing for the scent of blood between burned out banks and weed-covered lots. Johnny grinned to himself. Instinct and reason, driven by loyalty and, in a way, by vengeance. fucking beautiful.

Soon, the patches of forest tucked into the inner city gave way to a square mile of towering steel and concrete, their glass panes reddened by the sinking sun. Down town. The library was a block away, now, and city hall only a few streets from here. Devi glanced at him, a question in the set of her brows.

"Break off before first contact?" she suggested, eyes flicking over the empty streets. Marion had informed them of a sunset curfew in the city, so empty streets were not surprising. It was only a matter of time, though, until someone with rank enough to protest noticed them and sounded the alarm, and it was imperative that the two of them reach Negro's make-shift palace before the fighting really kicked off.

Johnny nodded his head. He was getting antsy.

Devi turned her horse to the crowd behind them, mouth a grim line. "Barracks are in the old Hotel Nasty. This is where the plan kicks in, so Commander Tess is taking over from here out—obey her exactly as you would me. You know how the drill. We'll rendezvous at the hotel, if everything goes according to plan. If not… do what the jazz players do." Then she broke into a smiled and winked. "Best of luck, my friends."

The murderer could almost smell the blood on the wind and there was a tingling in his fingers, a sensation familiar and now understood. There was justice at hand.

Devi snapped her reins and Johnny mounted up, and then they were both off at a gallop through the city streets. The pounding hoof-beats rang out across the asphalt; towering buildings slid past them and fell into the sunset, whose light was rapidly fading. Twenty, twenty-five minutes, and they'd be fighting by moonlight.

Up ahead, the city hall was looming before them—Devi told him once that when they built it, thirty years ago, the entire city went crazy trying to stop the production, and the only way it ever got finished was an anonymous donation.

"Professor Membrain's father," she had explained, nodding towards Dib in the distance. "Everyone's pretty sure. The old man had serious cash—it was his funds that got Membrain Labs up and running in the first place."

_And now_, Johnny thought, _all_ _his funds are putting a cushion under Negro's dictating ass_.

The guards out front heard their horses before anything else, their little black figures ducking this way and that, trying to figure out where the footfalls were coming from. The sun at your back can do wonders.

Johnny's horse was fresher than Devi's and, after a moment's pondering, he spurred it ahead of hers and head-on against the black-coats. A scythe in each hand, now, he could feel something pounding through his veins—something huge and burning, like black wings beating at the edges of his vision. He smiled, lips splitting across his face, and the grin rose into a shout, a wild call that he knew somewhere in the back of his head was not English. And then he cut.

The soldiers never had a chance. One threw down his weapons and fled while the madman's blade was caught inside a ribcage, but no one else escaped. One by one, sometimes two by two, Johnny felled the soldiers-dismounted at some point-whirling like an inhuman thing with burning eyes and a grinning mouth—he could almost see himself, and he rather liked the image.

Somewhere along the way, Devi dismounted too and joined him as they sliced their way through the last outer guard and into the building, busting through the glass doors. Inside were the remainder of Negro's personal guard, and Johnny was on them just as quickly, moving at the frenzied beat of the raven's wings in his head.

It was up to Devi, now. All he could do was take care of these bastards, and hope that she came through alright. Between blows, he caught sight of her dashing up the stairs, covered by the shadows that torches could not touch, sword drawn and glinting.

She'd be fine. She was his _querida_, after all.

-Z?-

The hotel took about five minutes to reach, all in all. Tess was pretty impressed.

Her boots joined the mass of rubber soles pounding behind her as they reach the street corner. Once they turned, every soldier outside the barracks would be in visual range—they'd be up to their teeth in Red-teeth. Tess flexed her wrist. She wasn't unduly worried. Hell, she'd been chased by an interdimensional monster through a torture chamber ten stories deep underground. If she could survive that, she could roll sevens till judgment day. Kevin was at her side too, the appointed muscle to keep the worst of the attack off her while she gave any necessary orders, the Johnny to her Devi-though she might have liked to have her own boyfriend there, if he wasn't busy with manning the medical wagon.

She nodded, once, and they all poured out together—running and silent, maintaining the element of surprise for as long as possible. Up ahead, she could see two red-teeth conversing, or maybe arguing. The rest of them would be inside, the highest ranks on the first couple floors and the lowest at the top, where the stairs were almost insufferable. As soon as they were noticed, those top officers would come dashing out of the bottom floor, and the battle would start for real.

Twenty feet. Guards still arguing. Fifteen feet. One black-coat raises a fist. Ten feet. The other black-coat notices them, nearly falling over in surprise. Five feet. Someone screams behind Tess, and countless mouths take up the call. Contact.

Tess swung her knife and blinded someone, feeling the impact of skull against metal the same as her boot against concrete. One blow followed another—a pattern, her blade against soft flesh. At some point she scanned the mess of combat for Kane, seeking some reassurance that he was still alive and doling out the medical aid. It wasn't entirely out of duty, she admitted to herself, but she could only safely spare a few seconds between opponents so she never did get any guarantee. She chose not to think about the bad luck her former boyfriends had all run into.

The doors swung open about then, and a legion of black-coated soldiers stumbled out into the shrieking fray. She cut the throat of the first through the door, met another one blade-to-blade, feeling the jolt of adrenalin and the smooth glide of the dagger style—ducking and turning, mostly, evasive, landed blows almost an afterthought of dancing limbs. Well, when it was done right. And she'd been practicing longer than most.

One of the enemy reached for her and she fell into a crouch, thanking Whoever was up there for the short haircut that had become so popular with the Troupe members. A swinging arm as she jumped back to her feet left a deep slice in a very _vital_ place. She grinned and went to finish him off. That was her very favorite move.

Somehow, she fought her way into the building with Kevin still at her side, ducking through the mess of red-teeth and up the stairs—she wasn't sure what she was doing, but it was fun. She heard Kevin cursing behind her as she reached the second floor, slicing into the first moving thing she saw.

It appeared that most of the soldiers were dashing down the main staircase already, leaving the second floor, at least, next to empty. They just couldn't wait to die…

"Tess, you gotta see this," Kevin called, gesturing towards the one, large window.

Looking out at first, all she saw was the melee below them, the boiling mass of brown and black uniforms. But then, down the street, she noticed a throng—plain-clothes people, perhaps fifty, rushing down the avenue. Kevin held out his binoculars, face mute confusion.

Tess snatched the binoculars from his hand and peered down into the street. She got a good look at the grinning face of their leader, and, in the words of the greatest commander who ever lived, she whispered, "…What the _fuck_."

Zim, meanwhile, was having the time of his life. The many leaking bodies of human-smellies littered the dirt, and he had not so much as a broken finger. He shrieked something insulting about the red-mouthed earthenoid's ancestors and a goat, and dashed off to do more damage. At this rate, the Dib would be most pleased with his success.

The alien extended the spider legs from his pak and went bounding over the heads of the embattled humans, reveling in the ability to finally use his superior technology where it was most useful—avoiding the fellow inhabitants of this filthy ball of spinning filth.

Down the road there was the edge of the fighting, and Zim decided to start there and work his way in—it would be fun, like slicing through the foliage of that infernal "maze" the Dib chased him through once—only in this case, there would be considerably more blood.

As the spider legs retracted and left him standing at his own natural height—he paused to curse the power-system failure of even his own technology, just as he had been readying the last of the growth serum—there was a blur of movement down the supposedly empty street on his left. He whirled and sprung, ready to kill, and noticed something of great importance just before the first hit fell:

He knew the earth-pig before him.

He stopped, mid-blow, one eye closed as he regarded the fear-pale creature before him. It shook, a little, but did not step back.

"Juan-human?" the invader inquired.

Juan smiled nervously, waving off one of his protective looking companions. "Hey, Zim."

"But the Tallest! She said you had died!"

The Mexican-human watched the blade retract with relief. "Not exactly. I've been… spreading dissent in the ranks. As it turns out, not everyone wants to be a red-teeth. These guys here—" he gestured at the humans around him, "—are on our side."

Zim looked around at the worm-babies, mostly armed with kitchenware and baseball bats. Not very different from the early days of the apocalypse, but Zim knew from _painful_ experience never to underestimate the power of a baseball bat.

So he nodded, sliding out his spider legs again. "We are pleased to receive your reinforcements! Zim shall inform the commander of your arrival—in the mean time," he mentally translated and then went on, "partake of our battle and drink of our thirst, and revel in our unified fate."

Then he scurried off over the heads of the warriors, taking cheap shots wherever he could manage them. Technically, he wasn't of high enough rank to relay the right of alliance, but that was the relatively informal version and Devi wasn't exactly a stickler for ritual.

Zim grinned-the battle just got a little more interesting. There was nothing quite like revolution to spice up a war.

-Z?-

Devi crouched on the stairs, nails digging into the carpet below her. Negro's private quarters were on the second floor, supposedly, and all reports stated that he retired early in the evening. Her ears were attuned for the sound of footsteps, for the shuffle of servants in this make-shift palace.

Silence.

The Tallest rose to her feet and took off down the hall, past the study and the kitchen to the door at the end—one ballroom, converted into a spacious master bedroom. She scowled, practically tasting the indulgence in the air. Some king. Now, if anybody was a tyrant, it was Negro—not her. Her hand wrapped around the golden metal of the doorknob, her other tightened on the silver of her sword's crossbar. She burst into the room as the door crashed into the wall.

Negro turned to her, eyes wide and then narrowed tightly. The cross on his chest glittered as it swung, light caught on the buckles around his waist. Their eyes met for a split second, hers to his, blacker than any she'd ever seen before, and in that second they understood each other completely.

"Negro," she said, voice low.

"I'm at a disadvantage," he mused, sliding his sword from the sheath above his bed. "You know my name, but I don't know yours."

"Devi. Devi Darington."

He looked critically at her torn face and her disheveled hair. "And you're… what? Assassin? Soldier? Queen?"

"I prefer Tallest," she shot back, closing the door behind her. "But all of them, if you like those words."

The dark man frowned, his sword making swishing motions at his hip—a twisted thing, possibly lifted from a collector. "The queen of the little kingdom. Three houses and a wall. How many men do you have, _Reginita_?"

"Fifty. And every one of them worth five of yours."

"_Asombroso_. How do you fit them all behind that little wall?"

"Trade secret. _Your_ men interest me too… how do you convince them all to fight to the death for a worthless swine like you? They die like bugs, scores of them dead under each of our boots."

The smile on Negro's face never wavered. "As my friend Lenin once said, 'it takes a brave man not to be a hero in my army'… or maybe it was Stalin. I never _can_ keep my Russian friends straight. And you would do well to notice that so far you've faced rabble. Hardly an army."

Devi nodded, fingers itching for the first strike. "My men are out there as we speak, testing that."

"And you're here to kill me, huh?"

"Well," she replied, inching closer, "if you'd like to surrender now, I wouldn't say no."

"_Cabrona_," he said, mildly. "I don't think so—and if you're going to kill me, you had better start now."

There was no pause, no moment of hesitation as Devi dashed forward, sword slicing through the air—no pause, either, for the crash of steel on steel as their weapons met. She stepped back and swung again, and again, each blow parried and turned. Negro stabbed for her stomach and she fell backwards to avoid it, lost her balance and hit the floor—shit.

He was grinning down at her as he aimed again, and she rolled, feeling the blade of her own sword bite into her arm. Then she was up, steadying herself as he yanked his warped sword from the wooden floor.

They met again, steel scraping against steel, and as they were caught there for a frozen moment, she saw something behind him—something bigger and older, stretching back through the centuries like a string drawn taunt—and then she pushed sideways, turning his own strength against him, and they both went stumbling across the room. The tyrant came at her once more, and they descended into a flurry of swings and blocks, seeming to go on forever as Devi's arms burned and ached, and sweat ran down her opponent's temples. Blow after blow, her breath coming harder and harder, the whole universe was the steel in her hands and the frantic beat of her heart, and Negro's glittering black eyes.

He was just as tired as her, maybe more, she could see it in the shake of his hands and the blur of his eyes. There was an unguarded place, a hole in his defenses that she could just make out, and if she could just get her sword in position…

She dodged a blow and turned, just so, and she could hear, somewhere in the back of her head, a heartbeat—her own? And her arms were burning, and the crude stitches on her temple were pulling, and the cuts across her cheek stung from the sweat seeping into them, and she was swinging up through the air as if the motion was clockwork and inevitable. Her sword, lit by the torches around them, crashed into the side of Negro's stomach, slicing deep into his black-clad body.

His eyes widened and he stumbled in the midst of a strike—a good strike, one that probably would have taken off her head—and fell back as she wrenched the weapon free. Blood, forming a small puddle on the floor below him.

_Amateur_, Devi thought, the stunned voice in her head seeking to distract her, _he still has enough blood left to kill me, if he can get over the fact that I've killed him first. _

She heard a noise behind her and turned, sword out, to find Johnny standing in the doorway. He eyed the crumpling body of Armando Cortez as she caught her breath, suddenly aware of aches and pains she hadn't even noticed before.

"Devi…" Johnny murmured, stepping forward. "You're okay?"

"Yeah," she replied, between breaths, "I won. And you?"

"Nearly lost a couple fingers, but who the fuck cares?" He turned his attention back to the bleeding man on the floor. "So, this is Negro, huh? He looks… kind of… familiar."

Devi sheathed her sword, heedless of the blood dripping from it. "You know-" breath "-him?"

"Not exactly…"

Johnny slid his scythes into their ties, one on each hip. His black gloves brushed Devi's arm as he walked past her, took her hand and pulled her along. Something, some tension in the tired woman's chest lessened at that, her arms stopped aching quite so badly even as the trembling in her fingers went crazy—she was safe now, Johnny was with her an it was alright to be tired and drained and… human.

"I've been practicing this, a little bit," her partner began, crouching beside the felled king. "No point in letting another talent go to waste."

That really didn't explain anything, particularly not why Johnny was now tugging off one of his gloves—what? Johnny _never_ took those off—and placing a bare hand around the other man's throat. Johnny's other hand batted away Negro's attempt to dislodge him, thoughtlessly, and Devi was suddenly struck by the image: two Hispanic men, face to face, black eyes peering into black eyes and blood, barely red in the dim light, pooling between them and around them. She thought that the picture might stay burned into her brain till she died.

"First meeting," Johnny muttered, by way of explanation, "need physical contact so I can—fuck, this is icky—make a connection, there should be… oh, there it is! Neat."

Devi sat beside him, avoiding the dying man's dimming eyes. "What are you doing, Nny?"

Johnny glanced over at her and, hesitating a second, ripped his other glove from his hand with his teeth. "Here," he said, spitting the leather aside, "I think I should just show you."

He grabbed her hand, and immediately she understood what it felt like to be the end of an electrical circuit. She could see, again, the something she'd noticed before—the big Something, like a string, zipping back through time. Through the layers of time and space, like folds of a cloth beneath them, the thread anchored back to a dark night, to a fire and to…

Johnny.

But a different Johnny, one whose face contorted before her eyes and whose lips, skinned back from his teeth, glistened with blood. Blood of a man named—

"Cruzito…"

The connection broke, and Devi was looking at her Nny again, this one whose eyes were wide and whose fingers, ripped from Negro's neck, trembled slightly.

"You…" Devi started, "You know him after all?"

Johnny shook his head, hastily pulling his gloves back on. "No, no. I knew his... I knew a man named Cruzito. A long, long fucking time ago."

Devi looked down at her hands, skinned and a little bloody. She thought she knew what her partner was talking about, and that would have to do for now. There was still a leg of this journey waiting, still another battle to fight and no time to reminisce any longer.

"C'mon," she said, pulling Johnny to his feet with her. "Time to put on a little show for the Red-teeth."

TBC


	30. T'hy'la

_The Change_

_Summary_: the world is wicked, the world is cruel. No one knows this better than humanity's emotional sewer system, Johnny C. But floods are a thing of the past, and the world is spiraling out of control. It seems like maybe, this time, the lights have gone out for good.  
_Story:_ a crossover of Johnny the Homicidal maniac, _Dies the Fire_, Invader Zim, and misc. names and places. In which the old world ends, and a new world begins.  
_Leading characters_: Johnny C., Devi D, Todd 'Squee' Castil, and the Zim and Dib duo.  
_Warnings_: Murder, language, references to cannibalism, of course Johnny C. himself, and religious stuff.

_an_: I have the most sickly, cancerous computer ever born. Who gave my computer polio when it was a little machine? Whoever it was, you can blame them for the week-late update. Anyways! **one more chapter!** And it's technically an epilogue.

* * *

The jacket on the hook was just as infamous as the man who had worn it, a symbol of something much bigger than its trench coat style or glimmering buckles. Devi ran a finger over the threads decorating the collar, wondering where a gang member could have picked up something like this—it reminded her of those punk kids she saw in the mall once, with their belts made of gears and clockwork tattoos… For all its discordance, it felt perfectly suited for the old, new world. Smirking to herself, Devi tugged the coat from its place and slipped into it.

"You remember," she called out to Johnny, who was rifling through Negro's weaponry, "how I said Negro was the head of the monster?"

"Yess," came the reply, and there was a shuffle of papers from the same direction.

"Well," she went on, turning back to the cooling corpse in the middle of the room, "I think it's time we removed the head, don't you think?"

Johnny turned to ask her what she was talking about, but she was already standing beside Negro's body, lifting her sword. "This could take a couple tries," she warned him, limbs still weak from the fight of moments before.

Swish—THUMP. The blade of her sword lodged in the spinal column, and panting, she tugged it free. Another swing, and the head rolled free as a pool of blood spread towards her feet. Hm, she probably shouldn't step in that. Grimacing, she reached down and pulled Negro's head into the air, and tried to avoid any contact with the now pale skin. Johnny stared at her.

"Proof," she explained, pleased to remember that the black of her nice new coat wouldn't stain. She didn't particularly fancy carrying her trophy by hand all the way… perhaps she could attach it to her belt, the way they'd done in the old days.

The madman raised an eyebrow. "Wouldn't the jacket have sufficed?"

Tying a strong knot in the black hair, Devi replied, "Doesn't make the same impression. This is to completely _obliterate_ morale, and put the fear of God back into them too."

"Fear of _you_," Johnny snorted, striding towards the door. "Well, time to kill s'more of those red-toothed fuckers. Think they'll be scared?"

Devi regarded her reflection in the mirror across the room, eyeing the long coat and the bandaged face, and the head swinging gruesomely at her hip. "Oh," she replied, grinning, "I think they'll be terrified."

--

Tess lost track of how many people she'd killed since she ran back to ground level and met Zim. She'd shouted for her crew to help out the traitors, sent Zim back to escort them, and been thrown back into the epicenter of the battle. They just kept coming—pouring out of the building like ants from a kicked-in nest. They bit just as hard, with steel teeth, if you didn't kill them fast enough.

She was getting tired, now, and slipping up. Everyone was tired, her people and the Red-teeth both, and they just kept coming, more and more. The good news: the best fighters were mostly dead by now. The bad news: one person couldn't take on three opponents at the same time. She thanked Whoever might be involved for those reinforcements, or else they would have been overwhelmed a while ago. There was a cut on her shoulder bleeding profusely, and she kept an eye out for Kane in the last of the fading daylight. There was blood on her glasses.

There, the medical uniform—same armor, but with the three-part medical hieroglyph on the chest. Kane. She caught his eye and he came ducking through the mess of soldiers, narrow eyes flicking back and forth as he dodged flying hands and slashing knives. He was _always_ on guard, even when they were off the battlefield. Tess reached out and grabbed his shirt, yanking him forward as something sharp flew through the air towards where the back of his head should have been.

"Hey," she said, breathless, scanning the area immediately around them for any hostile characters. "Got some spare gauze?"

Kane examined the slash on her shoulder for a second and then slid a roll of bandages from the bag at his hip. As his fingers made quick work of the wound, he glanced up at her. "Are you alright?"

"Otherwise?" she grinned. "Yeah. I love a good kill. I can see why Johnny used to do this, it's very satisfying."

Kane nodded, tying off the bandage. "It can be addictive, but like any drug, it's not good for you in more than minimal doses. I'm glad Gwen never went into the gang…"

They looked at each other for a split second, then Tess murmured, "Watch your back, okay?"

Kane kissed her and slipped back into the fray. Tess took a deep breath and targeted a black-coat just emerging from the barracks, smiling a little. She'd never dated anyone like that before—she could imagine Anne Gwish's reaction if she took him by the club, the absolute _horror_. Tess wondered if it would have shocked her completely mute, for one in her life, and then the smile grew as she remembered that they'd found Anne's body in the back of the club, months before, clutching an eyeliner pencil like a weapon.

The battle went on around her, blood turning the concrete slick and she found herself tripping over bodies—too tight, they were packed too tightly on the street and running out of room as they churned through their opponents. And it went on, _she_ went on, until there was no light aside from the moon and the candle in the windows above them.

There was a shout from somewhere in the distance, one she didn't notice at first, but as more voices took up the cry she started to scan the distance for the source, peering between the silver outlines and the flashing steel for a glimpse of… whatever it was. In the dark, peripheral vision can sometimes work better—and the first sight hit her from the corner of her eye.

Up the street, there were two figures, mounted figures approaching quickly: Devi and Johnny. It had to be. She wanted to look closer, but she was swept back into the melee and all she could hear was the rising cry as she pushed and slashed her way through the frantic bodies, up the street and toward the source. If Devi was back, then she wanted to see it firsthand.

With a final blow, she burst out through the worst of it and into the mostly empty street, bumping shoulders with one of the others straining for a look—and what a look. Silhouetted in the moonlight, the Tallest was as surreal as she was awesome, and her rapidly growing form carried the confidence of a victor. Tess let out a laugh, and allowed her voice to join the others as Devi galloped into their midst, Johnny like a shadow just behind her. The white horse seemed to glow in the moonlight, and Tess noted with fascination the memento tied to her belt.

The cry grew with every second, a new voice joining their ranks one after another, until the whole street was one sound and the red-teeth were shrinking back from each of their battles, countless sets of eyes searching for the source of the disturbance as their strikes turned wilder. Tess and the others formed a sort of circle around their mounted leader, a thrashing bubble that allowed Devi to ride into the center of the fighting and—with barely a glance—rip the ghastly trophy from her waist and toss it, spinning, between the feet of two commanding red-teeth.

There was a moment of stillness.

And then chaos.

The screaming of the Troupe blasted back into being, louder than before, shook the street from end to end as the army of red-teeth recoiled together and joined the shriek—theirs wild with fear, the Troupe's with triumph. Tess felt almost out of body, above and beyond herself, and was reminded for a split second of a page from tenth grade psyche class… mob psychology…

Devi raised a hand, white-outlined in the moonlight, and the cries petered out. "Your king is dead," the Tallest said, voice like stone. "Your king is dead, and I killed him! Who will rule you now?"

There was a burst of murmuring, a buzz almost below perception.

"I killed your king," she repeated, louder now, "and you have no leader! You have nothing, no one to tell you what to do or where to go, no one to die for and no one to kill for. I broke into your king's fucking palace and killed him in his own room, and now I want to know who's next! Who has the power to lead you now? I'm waiting! Who do I fight now? Who's _next_?"

Devi jumped off her horse and pushed towards the edge of the bubble, and as she passed Tess caught a glint of _something_ in her eyes.

"Negro is _dead_! Dead by my hand! And that makes me… the victor. Anybody wanna challenge that?" The bloodied woman glared around at the crowd, pushing past the circle and out into the midst of the frozen chaos. She spread her arms out and waited. "Free shot! Try me if you have the balls! If I can take down Armando Cortez, then you people are my fucking breakfast cereal—who wants to challenge! Who wants to prove me wrong! No? No one? No one wants to help me start a collection… c'mon, Negro's head looks pretty lonely there! No? Well fine. Fine. I own you now. That's how it works."

Now, the murmuring started up again, angry this time. Devi folded her hands behind her back, drawing up close to one sweating soldier, and his eyes flickered wildly as she bore down on him. Tess imagined she'd be scared too, if a bloody madwoman dressed in a dead man's jacket came stalking up to _her_.

"What's your name, kid?" the Tallest demanded, pressing her sword against his chest.

He flinched, visibly, and replied, "E--Edd."

"Uhuh. You look smarter than the rest of these morons. Tell me Edd, who gets the spoils of war?"

"…The victor?" he tried, avoiding eye contact with everyone around him.

"Correct. And in the old days, what were the spoils of war?"

"Money," the teen answered, glancing for a split second somewhere else in the crowd, "women, power, land… the kingdom…"

"Correct again." The Tallest pulled back the weapon. "So, what you're saying is… If the queen kills the king, she gets the kingdom. Am I right?"

Edd nodded. Turning back to the rest of the crowd, Devi smiled an awful smile.

"You've got nothing. You're like children, lost in the fucking supermarket! You've _been_ children! Negro came a long and gave you an easy way out, somebody to follow, because you needed somebody to tell you what to do! And he turned you all into monsters! You're surviving off of human meat! You're letting some gangbanging racist _upstart_ jerk you around like puppets! You are _weak_!" She took another step back, tapping the ground with her sword. "Well," she went on, "I'm not Negro. This is your last chance, if someone has the authority to challenge me…"

No one moved.

"Okay then," Devi said, sliding her sword back into its sheath. "Go home. All of you. Go home. I'll make an announcement tomorrow at dawn. I expect every able-bodied person outside city hall when the sun rises. Edd, you come with me."

There was a kind of tenseness in the air as she turned back to Johnny, shaking ragged hair from her eyes. He glared at the multitude, wild eyes high with the intoxication of fear and victory, and then mounted up, his hand brushing Devi's. She looked back at them and repeated, "Dawn."

And then the two horses broke into a gallop, the sound of hooves filling the silent street. They dissapeared into the darkness, leaving the ghastly proof of their conquest lying in the street.

"Shit," someone hissed, behind Tess. "We're _so_ fucked."

And the tension broke.

--

_Dear Die-ary,_

_We win._

_June 21, 1998_

--

Devi paced the rooms of the late Armando Cortez, taking a special sort of pleasure in the bloodstain flaking underfoot. After she had returned here last night, she'd settled for a night of rest in the ostentatious bed while her people policed the remaining red-teeth. Johnny had spent the entire night outside her door, refusing sleep so he could keep up the guard. It seemed unnecessary, but that was his way, and it represented something bigger.

Now he was sitting on the bed, sharpening his scythes, the circles under his eyes darker than she'd seen them in a while. She paced, mind racing raggedly through every stray thought and emotion. It was the only thing she could have done, she reminded herself. It was for the best. Negro was a monster, and a threat to her entire operation—but still, still, did she really want to take over his place? Did she want that? As if ruling her own people wasn't hard enough, as if it wasn't draining enough, as if she really needed anther forum to potentially screw up in.

There was a city outside that window, where the splash of pink was only just spreading across the horizon, a city that was now in her hands. It lay there, fragile, dripping blood and ink, waiting for her to begin… and she didn't know if she could go through with it.

"Devi," Johnny said, not looking towards her even though she turned back to him. "Stop freaking out."

"I'm not freaking out," she lied, fist clenching around the pommel of her sword.

"You're pacing like a tiger on crack and I can hear your teeth grinding. Stop it. What're you so scared of? It's a fucking speech!"

"It's not the speech!" she shot back. "It's the… it's everything! I'm not sure I can do this, this Tallest thing! Not for all these people, people I've never met and who probably hate me—with good reason! Nny, I don't know if I can do it. It seems like the more power I have, the less sleep I get. It's like, every step I go up, the farther I could fall. It was different in the beginning when it was just you and me and eleven other people eating dinner in your back yard, deciding who was going to be the boss. But this? Hell, I'm really, actually scared."

Johnny looked at her for a moment, and she could almost see the gears spinning in his head. After a moment, he put away the scythes.

"Do you know why the Troupe looks up to you?" he asked, and without waiting for an answer, went on: "It's because you're good at what you do. You make plans, Devi. You make _good_ plans, and they work—and you care about the people under you. Anyone can tell! You want what's best for the people, and you aren't afraid to do whatever it takes. You know I care about you, right?"

Devi nodded. The extent to which that went, she wasn't certain, but she knew that Johnny had done more for her than he'd done for any other human alive, including, surprisingly, himself. And she remembered thinking on multiple occasions that no one could get away with what she did, and no one could trust Johnny the way she had—somehow—come to.

"I don't even _like_ most people. But I care about you, because… you're the bravest person I know. You have balls, Devi, and guts, and you've got something that goes a hell of a lot deeper, something that I can feel when I'm near you. It's all about soul. Fuck, you're the strongest person I've ever met. If anybody, _anybody_, can do this, it's you."

He was standing in front of her now, hands intertwined almost nervously.

"I trust you. Everyone trusts you. And you _earned_ that trust, you see? Nobody's just tossing their lives at you arbitrarily. There's no one out there better equipped to deal with this than you… and besides… you have me. It's not like you're taking on the whole shtick alone," he said, subdued the same way that she remembered him a long time ago, when he had looked up at her with that impossible vulnerability, that almost disbelieving trust, and asked why she bothered with him.

She heard the slither of metal leaving a sheath, and fear shot through her like a spike of fire—shit, that happened last time too—and oddly enough, betrayal. For a second, her heart hurt worse than any of her aching injuries.

But Johnny only held out his scythe, nearly-black eyes locked on hers. Hesitatingly, he tapped the ebony inlay with one gloved finger and half-smiled. "You said we were in this together. You said you had my back… and I have yours. Anything you need, let me deal with it. I'm crazy and I'm distractible and I'm dangerous, but I know you can use me. I'm here. Think of me like… a weapon. Use me, however you need me. I would do anything for you—I'd do everything for you. Let me… let me help."

For a moment, Devi was silent. There was a riot of emotions and thoughts roiling through her head, memories overlaying dreams… all the things he'd ever told her, the promises he'd made, the things he'd done, firelight dancing off his night-black irises… Blood and shattered glass, smoke and starlight…

"Johnny …Nny. You're not my tool," she started, a kind of tightness in her chest, "you're my partner. My friend. My… you're my Johnny. And I don't think I've ever thanked you for that. It's another one of those stupid ironies, the ones God seems to like throwing out at us—I hated you so much, you know? I wanted to hurt you so badly, the way you hurt me… and here you are now, my other half. How screwed up is that?"

"I'm still not sure how you forgave me," the murderer admitted, quietly.

"It just… happened. One day, I didn't feel it anymore." She waited, as he seemed to ponder that. It was difficult to imagine what was going through his head at moments like these, what he was remembering as his eyes flickered. Despite everything, Johnny Casil was still a mystery. And maybe that was as it should be.

"I love you," he told her, finally, gesturing vaguely with that scythe.

"Uhuh…" Devi stilled his hand. "…Somehow, that doesn't surprise me."

Her hand rested on top of his for an infinite moment, and she could almost feel the heartbeat in his veins, the warmth of flesh, even through the cold leather. It seemed like she had spent a lifetime learning how—how to find the human under the protective casing. Even when they first met, before the fear and hatred, she hadn't understood him. But sometimes, she supposed, broken things grow stronger in the places where they've broken. And she couldn't imagine a life without him now, honestly. Such a thing seemed… implausible.

"There's a crowd waiting outside that window," she murmured, at last, "and a hundred people waiting for their futures. If I'm going to make this work, I need someone I can trust behind me."

Johnny grinned, suddenly, and held out his other hand. "One head-bashing, ancient-ass homicidal maniac, at your service."

Devi smiled too, despite the pain that shot through her cheek. It was a good reminder that this was real. That they were both here, right now—not dead, not dreaming, not killing each other. She took his offered glove and glanced out at the light breaking through the clouds. Sunrise. Dawn. A new day.

Devi threw open the parapet door and stepped out into the summer morning. She could feel the sun on her face and Johnny at her side, and a hundred waiting bodies below her.

_"Brothers, you are free!"_

--

_Dear Die-ary,_

_I had another dream. I dreamed that the world was dark, and that I was the darkness. And I dreamed that Devi was the light. I dreamed that there was ugliness, and there was beauty, that there were humans and there were monsters—and I couldn't tell them apart. And I dreamed that there was hatred, and love. _

_I dreamed of a kingdom that wasn't a kingdom, and a king who wasn't a king, and a hero who wasn't a hero. _

_Perspective. Understanding. Hope. For the first time, the first time in a very, very long time, I remember what they mean. And I think that was the problem all along. Events have placed this thought in my mind. _

_I dreamed of paintings on every wall of an ancient, endless house, each scene fading into another seamlessly. And I dreamed of the Mother-of-All, and she was smiling._

_For the first time, the lights are on. And they may be on for good._

_June 29th, 1998_

.

In the years that followed, about a thousand people all claimed to have been there that day. In the years that followed, everyone seemed to remember a different speech, a slightly different message. Even the Tallest herself couldn't quite remember the wording.

What they all _did_ remember, though, was the meaning.

Johnny would recount orders and warnings. Tess would recount talk of futures. Devi would remember promises. The crowd would remember fear and hope, and uncertainty and shame. There was mention of dreams. Months of fear and subjugation began their long and steady change into freedom. That was the day when the real Change began--a new way, a new leader, new dreams... In a way, in all ways, better than it had been before the Change. Years later there would be a painting, hung in one of the House's private rooms, of a tired, injured Devi on the parapet—arms wide, expression demanding, bathed from blue-black hair to combat boots in breaking sunlight. The painting would be imperfect but beautiful, each layer of oil color applied with such reverence that it poured from the canvas.

It would be signed, Johnny C.

And it would one day become the symbol of a legend.

--

Terminus ad Ingressum


	31. Death and The Lady

_The Change_

_Summary_: the world is wicked, the world is cruel. No one knows this better than humanity's emotional sewer system, Johnny C. But floods are a thing of the past, and the world is spiraling out of control. It seems like maybe, this time, the lights have gone out for good.  
_Story:_ a crossover of Johnny the Homicidal maniac, _Dies the Fire_, Invader Zim, and misc. names and places. In which the old world ends, and a new world begins.  
_Leading characters_: Johnny C., Devi D, Todd 'Squee' Castil, and the Zim and Dib duo.  
_Warnings_: Murder, language, references to cannibalism, of course Johnny C. himself, and religious stuff.

_an_: Two Omakes will follow this Epilogue. I don't know when I'll have them up, so have your eyes peeled for updates!

It's been wonderful working with y'all--you've been fabulous, every one of you. Shout out to TalkBubble, and all the reviewers who helped make this story what it is. I never imagined this would turn into such an epic. So, without further adu, let the final chapter roll.

(And, Happy Valentines -winkwinknudgenudge-)

* * *

_April 8, 1999_

_Change Year Two_

_Troupe Territory, The House_

Devi sat in her work chair, boots propped up on the table, a clutch of papers in her hands—reports, each handwritten, from their steadily declining supply of office materials. The only written reports she received were the ones that, for one reason or another, couldn't be delivered verbally. The end result was a thin mixture of paperwork, either fascinating or dull as dirt.

She eyed the subject of this particular memo. While normally to conserve resources she would avoid asking for write ups, in Zim's case you could save yourself a lot of head-aches by forcing him to put it down on paper. No more yelling, no more forgetting the whole point, shorter tangents and still shorter reports. It was almost relaxing.

_Subject: the pitiful eastern rebels and their filthy mounds of FILTH_

Of course, there was only so much about the alien that you could suppress.

Contrary to the phrasing, the subjects of Zim's latest rant were not what she'd refer to as 'rebels'. After all, the Troupe was only seeking alliance, not allegiance. It _was_ irritating, though, that they wouldn't even talk to her. They were living on next to nothing wearing patched jeans and no shoes, and they wouldn't even talk to her. She'd like to see how well their 'religious objections' held up under one swift kick from her military wing.

Someone knocked at her door and she tried to ignore them. Now was not a time that the Tallest particularly wanted to deal with people. She just didn't. And if they didn't like that, well, they could screw off. She was allowed to be selfish on occasion.

"DEVI!" they yelled, mercifully muffled by the walls. "I KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE!"

"Go away, Tenna!" she shouted back. Not quite as loudly, but then people in Oregon probably could have heard Tenna.

The door popped open and Devi swore. When had she learned to pick locks?

"Go away," she repeated, pointedly ignoring both her friend and the _thing_ in her arms. "I have work to do."

"Bullshit," the black woman replied, knocking Devi's feet off the tabletop. "Nobody in their right mind would expect you to work today."

"Well I'd rather be working in here than working out there," Devi shot back, gesturing vaguely out the door. This being the second floor down, up might have been a better choice to point—provided she actually cared, which she did not.

Tenna snorted. "You're down here underground on a perfectly sunny day, studying one of those stupid scribbledy reports with a _candle_ and at this point do I even need to remind you what today is?"

"Fuck off," Devi replied. "If it's really 'my day' then I can spend it however the hell I want. It's bad enough you backed me into this fucking corner, now you want me to play Barbie for you? Go away. I've got things with some actual merit I could be doing in the hours proceeding the ceremony _you_ hijacked."

"You're such a bitch when you're nervous," Tenna sighed. She held out the fluffy white thing and grinned, shaking it in a vague appeal to some sense of artistic appreciation that Devi was entirely lacking.

Glancing for a moment upwards, Devi wondered idly what was going on up on the surface. She'd been pushing some deadlines, trying to get the highway clean-up running faster—if they could only get all the burnt out cars off the road by May, she'd be satisfied. Not to mention the spring planting was about to start, the which they were sorely in need of. They'd probably have to call back some of the family bands in the surrounding woods to help put it together, the way they'd pulled everyone in for the harvest last fall… where would she house them? Maybe the bottom floors would come in handy again after all, especially since a few of her core fifty were out in the bands even now.

"Do you think we have enough candles to keep up the first three floors? Just for a month or so…"

Tenna groaned. "Stop working! Goddess, Devi, you're completely absurd!"

"What? No, don't tell me _you're_ converting too!"

Her friend winked, folding her prize back up under one arm. "It's what all the cool kids are doing these days."

Beating her head against the wall was starting to sound like a really pleasant prospect at this point. "You're all nuts. All of you. I shudder to think what you've got planned for today."

"Nothing spectacular," Tenna demurred. "Just play along like a good little puppet, and I'll even let you have some cake."

"_Cake_? When did we get _cake_?"

"Well, it's not actually cake _per say…_ but I made it myself and I got confidence it's made of amazing."

With a final sigh, Devi put down her papers and stood, stretching until her spine popped. Deskwork could do a number on your posture, though not as much as a month of planting potatoes--she still remembered the dull ache of the year before. They had struggled to feed the Troupe's population in the winter, dredging up what they could from a harvest planted with thirty people in mind and what they could scavenge from the remains of farms and nurseries. Even that hadn't been enough alone. It was a hard winter.

She wondered if Pam had made it back in time for the festivities. Surely Tenna had dragged her along too—she'd managed to do it for every other surviving member of the original Household… But on the other hand, the roving fractions were still getting their footing, and Pam was the chief of that operation. Busy work.

"Let me see that monstrosity," Devi ordered, pointing at the white puff in Tenna's arms.

Her friend unfolded it so that the bottom layer brushed the floor. Well. It wasn't entirely hideous. It was pretty tasteful, actually, as far as dresses went. No ruffles, no puffed sleeves, no bustle…

Devi took it from her, examining the make. Not bad. But, it was still a _dress_.

"Not happening," she announced, tossing it back. "I told you I was doing it in my uniform, and I'm going to. And there's nothing you can do to stop me."

The black woman pouted. "But it's so uggglyy… and _plain_…"

Glancing down at her current uniform, Devi had to admit it wasn't terribly impressive. "I'm not talking about his one," she replied. She knew they'd never let her go up without some sort of nod to the occasion. "I've got a different one. It's new. For special occasions."

Images of black coats and bucked boots filled her mind. Now, _that_ was dressing up.

"It's black, isn't it?" Tenna asked, reading her mind.

Devi nodded, with the grace to look a touch sheepish.

Tenna sighed and turned back to the door, shaking her head. "I can't believe I'm letting you get married in black."

Devi smirked.

--

_Dear Die-ary,_

_"Till Death do us part"_

_That's what they say at weddings, isn't it? That's what they say, even if most of the fuckers out there never did take it seriously. _

_I do._

_Devi asked me to marry her. But, how can I? How can I, knowing that I may never die, may never age? Shit, I couldn't stand to see her die. How could I... how could I swear to stay with her while she grows old, remind her every day of how much closer she's getting to death? She thinks she wants it now, but what will she say when her hair is gray and mine is black? _

_I told her so. I warned her--I begged her to reconsider. I love her, fuck I love her so much, but she needs a partner who can share that with her. She needs someone who isn't me. She needs someone normal. She always has. I finally get it now, what love is--so I'm willing to let go. And I told her so._

_She punched me in the gut and told me not to be an ass._

_I don't know what's going to happen. I don't know, and neither does she, but she won't take no for an answer and I guess that's the way it has to be. Maybe that's the way it ought to be. For better or for worse, it looks like we'll face it together._

_April 8, 1999_

--

Squee stood in the yard, inspecting the wall in front of him. It was two men tall and this particular chunk was covered in graffiti, ninety percent of it written by him. It was a good way to keep his work together, though he was worried that in a few years he'd start to wish he hadn't written everything in such a permanent fashion—no corrections allowed. Maybe he could white wash over it…

Squee Castil was twelve years old, and someting of a prodigy.

Looking around, the streamers hanging from the roofs and walls were a bit much, he decided, and he wasn't sure what he thought of his old street being turned into an out-and-out fair—it was different for people who hadn't lived here, but he was still having trouble shaking off the memories of traumatic summers past. Before the Change, this gala had been a pit of drudgery and meager living. One day, he'd manage to forget.

The sun was almost overhead, bright and warm, as he turned back to the crowd. He hadn't seen a lot of them in a long time, people he'd known before the expansion and before the winter. New people, too, Devi's friends from the city and the leaders of roving bands. They had power, and they reminded him vaguely of politicians. Not that he knew much about politicians. He was pretty sure their job consisted of wearing suits and telling people what to do.

Kiki tapped him on the shoulder and smiled, holding out her baby. Almost a year old, now. Squee smiled and took her so Kiki could run to the main table. There was moonshine there, in varying degrees of adulteration for the varying ages. He pretty much hated the taste, but that was what the adults drank—and besides, it was safer than water. Water had all kinds of scary microorganisms living in it, waiting to devour him from the inside out.

"Hello Tlalli," he said to the baby, grinning brightly. Babies were gross too, sometimes, but Kiki kept hers cleaner than most. Plus, Squee loved the kid's name. He couldn't wait till she got older, and he could write poetry about her. He wrote poetry about a lot of people. Particularly Tyler.

He glanced over to the girl in question, quickly looking away before she noticed. That girl was contradictory enough to fill a whole book of verse.

The baby gurgled, and he passed her off to one of the other women who'd been eyeing them jealously. There weren't many babies around, right now, though there were a lot of pregnant women. He'd never seen so many pregnant women before in his life. His mom had tried to explain it, but all he could figure out was that there were no more security systems in the houses to keep the stork out. It was too bad his mom hadn't had a security system before _he _was born. Maybe then her and… his father… could have waited a while.

Squee shook his head. Thinking about it wasn't going to do any good, and besides, he was happy now.

Across the way, Charlotte was cuing up her violin, along with the teenage boy and the woman who'd all gravitated together. Violin players. Fiddle and cello too. His mother would be out in a moment or two to warm up—she couldn't resist flaunting her singing skills for a group this big. He smiled at the thought. Singing made his mommy happy.

He'd never been to a wedding before, though he had seen one on TV once. He remembered rose petals and big poofy dresses, but somehow he couldn't imagine Devi with either of those. She wasn't very girly.

"Hey Squee!" Dib called, waving the boy over.

"Hi Dib," Squee replied, running to him.

The older boy looked at his companion, Tenna, and then back at Squee. "Would you say that Zim is a complete jerk?"

Squee thought about it. "I dunno," he answered, "I think he's kinda crazy, but he's okay. Even if he does make fun of my organs."

Dib scowled. "Well, can you imagine him ever getting a girlfriend?"

The younger boy shook his head. Now, that would be funny.

Grinning now, Dib turned back to Tenna and said, "So there."

She looked over at Squee and winked, and he decided he didn't need to know what they'd been arguing about… or what Tenna was trying to prove. Her mind worked in mysterious ways—almost clairvoyant—and whatever she was predicting was probably going to cause somebody a lot of headache. He could see it in her smile; he recognized the twinkle.

Somewhere behind him, music was starting up. He recognized the piece from Charlotte's practice, since she lived in the left house with Edward and Delano and he'd had many winter afternoons to listen to her play. She told him that she'd composed it herself, for just such an occasion—he'd also heard Devi pretending to be annoyed that they were going to play the song today.

"Lords of fire, earth and water,  
Lords of rain and wind and snow—"

He sighed and turned back to the House. It was nice these days, with just a few of them living in the walls. Gwen's family and Edward's, his and Tenna's… Well, Tenna and Scott were moving out soon, actually, as soon as they could get a house set up. For now, though, they were still living on the first floor down, just like Pam and Derek had—though _they_ had moved out before the harvest.

He caught sight of the woman in question and noticed the particular attention she was paying to the makeshift altar, rearranging items and switching candles. Apparently, Mrs. God needed certain stuff to make a marriage proper. He spied a knife and a fancy cup, and hoped that nothing scary was going to happen.

There was a shift in the crowd, a kind of quieting.

"—where is born the heart's desire?  
life, as all life, born with pain."

He looked towards the door, now fixed up like the rest of the House, and saw a dark figure step out.

Black hair, cut in a variation of the popular style, pants tucked into knee-high boots—Johnny, looking as he always did, glaring at the crowd. His gloved hands twitched for a knife, and Squee sighed.

"Hi Nny," he greeted, moving forward to catch the man's hand. A year ago he wouldn't have _dreamed_ of doing that.

"Hey Squeegee," the madman muttered. His dark brown eyes flickered across the courtyard. "I hate it when people stare at me."

"Please don't kill anybody," Squee sighed. Why did he always end up playing the man's conscience? He was _how_ many thousands of years old? "They're here to celebrate. They aren't staring at you to judge you or anything; they want you to be happy. This is a _happy_ thing, Nny."

The adult scowled. "I still don't think we need to do this at all."

"Then why are you doing it?" Squee asked, genuinely curious. In his experience, nobody made Johnny do something he didn't want to.

"Devi asked me to," he sighed, the nervous tension draining from his body. "And she said… stuff. It made sense at the time. I just… really fucking don't want to go up in front of all these people. I swear if one of them tells me I look _wacky_…"

"You look just like you always do." The boy pulled his companion towards the altar. "These people love you, Nny. It's kinda funny actually—" he cut his laugh short at Johnny's look. "Anyways, if you back out now, Devi'll be real disappointed."

He considered that for a moment. "Okay," the word came out defeated, "At least I don't have to wear a suit…"

"It's all symbolic anyways," Squee pointed out, diplomatically. "Nothing's going to change, y'know? You and Devi are still gonna be you and Devi, and everybody knows how you guys are anyways. It's more of a… gesture."

Johnny hmmed. "It's not as if I'm having cold feet about spending the rest of my life with her—fuck, who'd say no to that? It's just… all these people… _looking_ at me. It freaks me out. This is way more of my personal life than any of these people have business knowing. Since when is my life a show for their entertainment?"

"You're missing the point," the boy responded, remembering what Devi had told him. "You aren't a show… you're a promise. I think they want to see this because they need to know that things are going to be okay. I mean, they've been through a lot, right? They want to see the people they look up to happy, 'cause it means they can be happy too."

The look he got for that was worth the risk of offending his companion. He really liked the way Nny respected his opinions, even though he was only twelve years old. The cool thing about Johnny was that age was pretty meaningless to him—you were worth his time or you weren't, and that was that.

"Plus," he added, leading Johnny to his place by the right side of the altar, "they really do like you. And Devi. They _really_ like Devi."

Johnny looked about to respond to that, but it was at that moment that the crowd went silent, a kind of excitement sparking through the air. All eyes turned to the House's door.

If Johnny's attire had been unorthodox, then Devi's was staggering. Her hair was all black these days, the same shade as her vest and pants, and the famous coat she had stolen off the back of a dead king. She had painted her eyes in shades of violet, a swirling tattoo applied with an artist's delicacy—she reminded him of one of the paintings…

A bow drew across violin, filling the air with one whispering note, fading back into its tune and growing as Devi marched toward the alter. Squee smiled. That definitely wasn't what he remembered seeing on TV.

Johnny sent the boy one last anxious look and, visibly stilling his hand, moved into the proper place. He looked at his partner with a kind of helpless wonder, placing a hand on the chalice as she took her place beside him and winked, so quickly straight-faced again that it might not have happened at all.

What Squee _hadn't_ mentioned to Johnny was what else Devi had told him, earlier: that this was her way of getting back for the shit he put her through once upon a time. After this, they'd be even once and for all.

Derek stood behind the altar, grinning delightedly. He'd talked the Tallest into letting him preside, since he was the High Priest and one of both the bride and groom's friends—which was an accomplishment. Devi had wanted a non-denominational ceremony, but the man had wheeled her into his version by swearing to tone down the religious aspects, and reminding her that a good portion of the Troupe was Wiccan these days. Squee hadn't known that weddings were supposed to be religious at all.

"With the witness of the Troupe, we're gathered here today," Derek started, "to join Tallest Devi Darington and Johnny Casil together as two halves of a single soul."

The crowd settled into a sort of content waiting, a few people taking seats on the ground. Squee kept standing because he was short enough without any help.

"We aren't going to do any fancy spiritual stuff," he told the audience, rolling his eyes, "because our Tallest doesn't hold with that kind of nonsense. I think everybody here's pretty surprised she's getting married at all. But, the fact is that she _is_ here, getting married. And tonight, she'll go to bed the exact same woman she was this morning. Just like Nny is going to go to bed, probably alone—calm down, it's a joke—the same way he did yesterday and the day before.

"Why? Because it's not about change, or about making yourself something you're not. This isn't about making anybody else happy, or doing what anybody expects you to do. This is about two people, people who would die for each other, promising to spend the rest of their lives together. Making it official. Because, Goddess knows you'd spend the rest of your lives living in that house, hopelessly _staring_ at each other—Devi please, not you too—until the Change decides to reverse itself, regardless of whether we get you up here to make it certified or not."

The crowd laughed, and Derek picked up the dagger on the table, gesturing idly.

"So in light of that, Devi, I've got to ask you a couple things. Do you, sound of mind and body, swear to take care of this man, in sickness and in heath, poorness, wealth, sanity, or the ever frequent bout of insanity?"

Devi glared at him. "Yeah."

"And do you swear to listen to him when he's got something to say? Do you swear to trust him if the time ever comes? Do you swear to have his back, whenever and wherever he needs you?"

"Yeah."

The priest turned to Johnny. "And do you, being of relatively sound mind and body—you _did_ sleep last night, didn't you?—swear to take care of this woman, trust her and so on and so forth forever and ever, till death do you part?"

The madman fidgeted nervously for a moment, catching his partner's eye. "…Yes…"

"Then," Derek went on, "with the power vested in me by the Troupe and the Tallest… I can't do anything myself. But I'll bear witness, today. You two are, and have always been, soul mates… From the moment you were born, from the day you met, since the Change and the Troupe and the Expansion, you were always going to be here--"

Squee had an odd sense, at that moment, as if someone had peeled back a layer of reality. He looked at Devi and Johnny—as much a father and mother to him as anyone had ever been—and saw something in them, in them and above them, that stretched out into every corner of the courtyard and into every face in the crowd. He saw it as if he was peering past a painting to see a room on the other side, and there was something waiting there that was impossibly cosmic, small enough to wrap his fingers around, reminding him of a sensation half remembered from his dreams.

There was something there, inside of the two humans at the altar, that was larger than life. It felt like immortality.

"—Which is probably why you both had such rotten luck getting laid."

And then Devi backhanded the priest, and the moment shattered into gasps of laughter and sunshine.

_The End._

_--_

Death and the Lady rode through the hills,

Like a bowshot in the dimming light,

One steed as white as the stars,

The other as black as the night.

Into the valley of fear they rode,

With the sunset spread like wings,

And the sun all red and dripping blood,

The party's footfall rings

Too and fro, from peak to fall,

Like the death toll of a God,

For the riders were fearless, mounts unmatched,

And their hooves with light were shod.

Death and the Lady descended like Night,

And wrapped it round their shoulders,

Riding through the enemy camp

And the wind they brought was colder

Than any the valley had seen before

Since men raised glass and steel,

And their cries, as ancient still,

Which the enemy woke to feel.

Death fell on their warriors,

Numerous, but quickly felled,

His blades rent paths of blood

And ancient words he yelled.

The Lady walked in silence still,

To the Black Lord's dreadful keep,

With a sword as bright as moonlight, she crept,

And found the king asleep.

She woke him with the glint of steel,

And offered him one last chance,

But the devil stood laughing at his side,

And the devil called for his dance.

The Black King's sword was crooked and sharp,

For men's swords are like their minds,

And in caught in ancient combat

Like the moonlight as she blinds,

The Lady met his black with white,

And strove against her foe,

And as her people's heartbeat rang,

She struck the mortal blow.

With his blood poured freedom out,

Running down the castle walls,

And the Lady's voice rang out above

Echoed through the streets and halls.

"Throw down your arms!" she called,

"brothers come to me!

Your king is dead by my hand,

Brothers, you are free!"

Then Death was at his Lady's side,

To take her hand within his own,

Riding back the reddened valley

On paths where starlight shown.

With easier hearts and bloodied hands,

Knowing they would not roam,

They called their steeds and sheathed their steel,

And went returning home.

And Death and the Lady go riding still,

And still returning home,

For all who fight, and all who love,

Have found Their seeds are sown.

_-"Death and the Lady"_

_Attributed to Casil the Bard_

_First Change Century_


	32. Omake: Human

_The Change: Omake  
_

_Summary_: What makes a monster and what makes a man? Once upon a time, before Johnny was Johnny, there was Nemo.

_Warnings_: gratuitous Greek and Chinese mythos.

_an_: Omake ... and it's a flashback! Oooh, I've been wanting to do this for SO LONG. Song of Death can be found in its epic entirety here: http:/ desdemonakakalose. /art/Song-of-Death-167628704.

**Cultural notes located at the bottom of each section, for your edification.**

* * *

"what does it mean to be human?"

Asked each world, in turn…

600 BC

Mediterranean

The man who would one day call himself Johnny C tapped the table before him nervously, aching for the heavy security of his cloak. He knew where every knife was sewn into the stitching, knew the hidden arrowheads like he knew the back of his hand. But it wasn't polite to wear that sort of thing at a dinner table, and besides, this people took the laws of hospitality more seriously than most.

But still, he didn't like having his cloak so far away.

"So… Nemo…" his host started, a spark of laughter in her eyes.

He nodded. That was the name he gave in this land, something that secretly amused him where all other jokes fell flat. He'd never actually faced down a Cyclopes the way Odysseus had, but his name-that-wasn't-really-a-name did seem fitting.

"What are you traveling for?"

Nny took a sip of the wine before replying. "There is a man… that I need to find."

"You don't look like you're out for vengeance," the woman noted, raising a brow. "You don't have that fire."

"It's not easy to explain," the wanderer conceded, "and there are limits to what I can say."

The woman waited. She was a patient one, his host—wife to one of the sailors, devout to the cult of Gaia. She had found him outside the marketplace, watching the horizon for the next ship. He needed a passage into Athens, and this was only the first step of his latest journey. The sea made him uneasy, for one reason or another, and he hadn't been looking forward to bargaining a place for the night either.

Meagara had found him, there, staring doubtfully at the horizon. A strange woman. She asked him what he was waiting for, and he told her—and she had said, "My husband is a sailor, and he should be returning soon. Come stay with me, and we can wait together."

So he came to her home.

"I have a duty," Nny explained, searching his memory for the Greek philosophies. "A divine duty, if you will. The fire that you don't see is the passion that I lack. I do what I must. There is no joy in killing."

"Isn't there?" Meagara asked, almost idly.

The man called Nemo frowned. "Death is a sad thing. Killing is a burden. The Mother… Gaia doesn't like to see her children slaughtered, man or beast."

The spark of delight returned. "But you are not Gaia, my strange guest. You are a man. And men love killing as much as they love women or youths, or gold or fine food."

"Hardly a man," Nny replied, returning to his wine. "And I love none of those things."

"Not women or youths or food or gold?" She seemed surprised at his nod. "Then, what _do_ you love?"

The air froze. Nny had never, in all his centuries, been asked such a question. Not once. And the answer, now that it was acceptable, was almost beyond his reach. No one had ever cared enough to ask, and he had never thought much about it—after all, what good could it do? He would go where he was sent, speak with whomever needed speaking to, do whatever needed to be done, just as he always had.

But, there was one thing. One thing he had liked more than strictly permitted.

"…I love art," he murmured, more to himself than his host. The statues in temples, carved with such utter devotion, and their painted walls, the portraits of nobles and the etchings on ornately curved vases… they were breathtaking, to him. So fascinating, a world that was ruled by mortal mind completely of its own power.

Meagara smiled, as if she'd expected that answer. "You want to paint?"

"Yes," the wanderer replied, marveling at the thought. He did want to. So, so much.

As a servant of the Powers, and extension of them, Nny was not supposed to love any one thing more than any other. He was not supposed to have a favorite human, or a favorite river, or a favorite moment in time. It was expected, and he'd never given any thought to whether or not it was true.

"You are a man, Nemo," she laughed, "it's quite obvious."

"Man-shaped," her guest qualified, stubborn. "Only that."

"Mhm. Then, what _are_ you?"

The Hebrews had a word close to it, but the Greeks did not. Nny scowled, annoyed for what was probably the billionth time that there were so many languages between humans. What did they need them all for, anyways?

"I am a servant," he told her, "the deliverer. I am like Themis. No, I am one of the Furies, the Erinýes, perhaps Androphonos. I am a killer of men."

"Oh?" Meagara stood and went to fetch their bread, unfazed. "And who sent you, Androphonos?"

"Gaia," he replied.

It was important to speak the language of the people, whatever people he happened to be among. But there was so much more to language than diction or syntax, conjugations and conjunctions. The tongue was only an extension, an avatar of the mind, of the—he struggled for a term—zeitgeist. Because all things were true, and imperfect, and so the material of what he knew was reshaped into something recognizable to his audience.

"Does your heart beat?" she asked, and he knew that these people believed the mind to reside in the heart.

"Yes," he answered, two questions at the same time.

"Does your stomach churn?" she asked, and he knew that these people believed knowledge to reside in the stomach.

"Yes," he answered again, both questions at once.

"And," she went on, "When the night is cold, do you shiver? When you hunt, does your blood race? When you see sadness, are you saddened too?"

"…Yes." Although he wasn't sure what the point of it all was.

"Allow a simple woman one last question. When you see the statues in the temples, with their eyes carved in perfection—no, when you hear the songs of the darkest days, when Persephone weeps in the caverns of the underworld on her marble throne… when you hear them, do you feel the pull of tears yourself?"

Nny was silent for a long time, contemplating the question—more than the question. After all, language, words, they were only thin replications of actual meanings. He knew the real question.

"Yes," he finally replied.

"Then how are you not a man?"

Outside the window, the sun was setting, spraying flakes of molten gold over the sea. It would be acceptable to leave, now that she had so presumed. It would be acceptable to bring her before the town, this forward wife. It would not be acceptable to explain himself.

So he did.

"The Sphinx asked a riddle once," he began, "one that Oedipus answered. 'What crawls on four legs in the mourning, walks on two in the afternoon, and three at night?' Man. Man is the answer, and in this case, the question. I have never crawled on four legs. I was never a baby, never a child, never even a youth. I have no mother or father or aunt, because I was not born like men are, not that I can remember. I do walk on two legs, that's true—but that is all I can ever hope for. I will never use a cane, and the thought is not something I am grateful for, though I know many would be."

"Immortal, eh?"

"You don't sound surprised."

Laughter filled the room. "I don't know the meaning of the word. I suppose that's something we have in common?"

He nodded, simply.

"Laughter, then. Have we that in common too?"

Nny tried to think of the last time—any time—he'd laughed. The only times that came to mind were cold and mirthless, and he recoiled from their emptiness now.

Meagera's appraising eyes were on him, peering into the depths of him. Quite frankly, it was unnerving. "I think I see what the problem is, now."

He waited.

"Androphonos," she pronounced, "It is not that you aren't a man… it's that you have never been taught _how _to be one. You love, you hurt, you dream, just like any man does… but you are so far from the rest of us that none of it makes sense."

"I don't know what else to do!" he burst out, exasperated. "What would you have me do? I have a duty! I am a killer! How can I do anything but distance myself? _How_? I want it so badly, but I can't have what they have—I can't have lovers or families or farms or kingdoms! Even if I wanted to, I couldn't. I want it, I want to know what it's like—"

Memories of moments, like tales captured on the stillness of pottery or chinese silk. People he had seen, friends and families, happiness and sadness, willing devotion… His anger when he couldn't understand Pyrmis and Thisbe, or Medea and Jason, or Daedalus and Icharus—he wanted it, he wanted to love and be loved and to want and to strive for things and he wanted to fear for his life and sacrifice his life, he wanted—Goddess, he _wanted_.

"Allow me a prediction," Meagara said, closing her eyes. "One day, you will find your heart. You will drink from that well, and as your thirst is quenched, you will choke. You will choke, and suddenly the water will taste bitter, twice as bitter as it ever was sweet. You will hate it, attempt to live without it, and that which you once sought so ardently will become that which you despise."

Nny scowled. "How could you possibly know that?"

The woman shook her head. "I have no magic," she sighed. "But I See you, and I See the pattern. Perhaps I am wrong, but I have not been wrong before."

Looking into her green eyes, he tried to discern some kind of truth, a reason not to believe her. Unnervingly, he found none.

"There may yet be a hppay ending. Such things are always possible. Come," she sighed, rising to her feet, "you may have my bed. I plan to wait by the docks tonight, and I can't imagine that you get much sleep."

So, Nny slept. And he dreamed, of things that he could never have. He dreamed of things that could be looked on, but never touched… and he dreamed of another pair of green eyes, that he had not seen yet but knew that someday he would.

-Human?-

*Gaia: literally, the Earth. Mother goddess of all Gods and beings.

*Nemo: "No man". Eponym of Odysseus when he tricked the Cyclopes Polyphemus.

*Themis: Goddess of Justice, servant of Zeus.

*Erinýes: also known as the Furies. Their duty was to seek out and punish crimes against the Gods.

*Androphonos: literally "man killer", an eponym of Aphrodite. Before she was the goddess of love and beauty, she was foremost of the Furies. Interestingly to this story, she wasn't born of a man and a woman either.

*Pyrmis and Thisbe: Greek Romeo and Juliet

*Medea: killed her brother and defied her father for the sake of Jason

*Daedalus and Icharus: respectively father and son who tried to escape their imprisonment by making wings from wax and feathers—Icharus flew too near the sun and the wax on his wings melted.

400 BC

Eastern China

The man who would one day become Johnny C wandered through a marketplace, hands stained rusty red with yesterday's blood. No one would notice. No one ever noticed, infuriatingly, and there were times when he wanted little more than to throw his bloodstained cloak down on the street and scream until someone listened. But no one was going to listen.

The man from yesterday was dead, his empty body lying between two trees in the nearby forest. A rapist, this time—the kind of retribution that reminded him why he existed at all. Much as he hated his life, he'd keep his peace as long as something good came of it.

He touched the bamboo tube strung over his shoulder, knowing that inside of it rested the few things that were truly his. Everything else belonged to the Gods or to Mankind—of which he was neither. Though he remembered a woman who had tried to tell him otherwise, and sometimes in the dark of the night, he wrestled with the question. It seemed to have no answer, as the bamboo tube across his back told him one thing, and the blood on his hands another.

"Lie lili… lie lili…" he sang softly, a tune he'd heard on the river. He was in a melancholy mood today, the sort of mood that made him question everything from Divine Providence to the intelligence of grasshoppers. Sometimes he could swear the little know-it-alls were laughing at him, and it really pissed him off.

He wandered down the road, aimless. There was a woman in Mongolia who was in need of his celestial wrath, and he was dreading it. Not the killing—he never shied away from a chance to rid the world of one more blight—but rather, it was the journey. The passage of time, the stretching roads, the bright faces who would fade into nothingness by the time he next returned. Time frightened him. Mortality angered him. Transience seemed like a crying offence.

Trees spread out over his head, a sign that he was once again leaving another civilization behind. Just like everything else.

Honestly, he was lonely. He'd never had a friend, not once in his entire existence. People come and go, nothing lasts. There were so many people in the world, each life-stream blazing bright one moment and dust the next, and he couldn't bear to see them die, one after another.

And even if he could, he had to go.

Something dark flickered in the trees, and the wanderer looked up, wary. Another flicker, and then there was a body hurtling towards his own with all the speed of cracking lightening. On reflex, his arm swung out and caught hair before the body could fly into his own.

"Lemme go!"

Nny looked down at the boy, surprised, fingers tangled in his hair. This little kid actually thought he could take down an adult? And here his first reaction had been to worry about bandits.

"You're the one who attacked me," he pointed out in a dangerous tone, pulling on the kid's hair. He didn't like children. They were like small, less logical adults… and adults were illogical enough to begin with. And since he'd never been one, he couldn't grasp their mental process in the slightest.

"Yeah, well, you're stupid for traveling alone."

Nny let go, annoyed. He wondered if he could drag the kid back to the city before it got dark—as much as he disliked children, he still wouldn't leave one in the forest at night. That would be pretty much against his moral code and—

While he wasn't paying attention, the kid reached up and snatched the bamboo tube off his shoulder, dashing into the trees before he could comprehend what had happened.

…Oh, shit. He was going to kill that midget with his bare hands.

"Get your fucking ass back here!" he screeched, and ran off into the shadows after him.

Ten minutes of running and one swift punch to the gut found the boy safely tied to a tree and Nny double checking his belongings while trying to set up a fire. It was getting dark and there really wasn't time to get the little fucker back to town before nightfall, so he'd have to stick around until dawn to return him.

Nny glared at the kid, who was stubbornly struggling with the twine around his legs. Hah. As if he could get out of that. Nny had sailed on a few ships in his day, and he'd worked construction in Egypt once. Knots were something he knew well.

"What's your name?" he asked the boy, searching his pack for tender wood. He couldn't return the kid to his parents if he didn't even know the boy's name.

"Shuang," the kid replied, distracted by the knots.

"Huh," Nny grunted, a kind of foreboding striking him. He really didn't want to talk to a kid whose name meant 'open-hearted'.

"What's yours?" Shuang asked, apparently forgetting that he'd tried to rob Nny once already.

Scowling, the older man replied, "Ning." The joke lightened some of his bitterness.

In a few minutes he had a proper fire going, and a bundle of dried roots set out for dinner. They made good traveling food, along with jerky and powder milk… he pulled out the smaller bamboo tube, pleased to hear very little sloshing inside. Less air meant more water.

"Hey, kid, you eat tubers?"

The boy stared at him, as if he was speaking a foreign language. Nny ran back through his words, just in case he'd lapsed into Mongolian or Babylonian while he wasn't paying attention. The gift of tongues was activated by hearing a language, but if you started thinking in a different dialect sometimes you started talking in it too.

"Why're you giving me food?" Shuang demanded, eyeing the roots suspiciously.

Oh. "Well, I can't bring you back to your family hungry… plus, you're kind of my guest. I guess. Do you want the fucking food or not?"

"Um… yeah?"

Nny handed him a strip and sat down, a few feet away. He couldn't remember the last time he had company at the campfire… must have been five years at least.

"What's in the case?" the younger one asked, gesturing towards the tube he'd tried to steal. "Gold? Pearls? Books?"

Hands tightening around the worn brown cylinder, Nny scowled. "The contents of this case are mostly valuable only to me. Even if you had stolen it, it wouldn't have done you any good."

"Then what _is_ in it?" Shuang pressed, a light of curiosity in his brown eyes. "Letters from your wife?" he asked, as if repeating an old phrase, and a strange one at that. Perhaps something from a fairytale...

Nny laughed. "Wife. Yes, _that's_ likely. No, they're letters… letters to myself, you might say."

"Why would you write letters to yourself?"

"To remember. The longer you live, kid, the less you remember. All the little things go drifting down the river, all the horrible things stay clinging to the banks. Sometimes, you have to remind yourself of the good times, before all you're left with is the bad."

"So you _can_ write?"

"Yesss," he hissed, slightly, remembering how he had first learned the skill. Sumerian scribes were harsh task masters, but nothing compared to the Egyptian tutors. And compared to them, the Chinese teachers were toothless crocodiles.

The boy was silent for a while, chewing doggedly on his meager dinner. Vaguely, Nny wondered if that would be enough for him… the wanderer ate less than most people, and he'd heard that children needed more than adults.

"I don't have any parents," Shuang finally said, looking over at his companion. "They died a few months ago. Sickness. I lived in the city for a while, stealing y'know, but eventually they ran me out. I was supposed to apprentice to the leather-worker at my next birthday, but since I was an orphan…" he trailed off.

"Oh."

Silence reigned for minutes, the popping fire filling what space was left. After debating for a while, Johnny reached over and carefully untied the twine around Shuang's legs. It's not like he had anywhere to take him now, anyways.

The boy looked hard at him. Nny braced himself for a barrage of questions.

"You're skinny. Like a noodle."

Nny gaped.

"See?" the kid went on, holding out his wrist, "you're as thin as me, but you're twice my height. That's not healthy. Do you eat anything besides those tubers?"

Nny just stared.

"I used to eat noodles all the time," Shuang informed him, "so I think I'm pretty informed on the subject."

"I doubt you've eaten more than scavenged rice in months," Nny shot back, annoyed again.

"Says the noodle-boy," his companion countered.

Nny decided to stick to staring in an alarmed fashion from now on.

He turned his attention to the patch of sky above them. The stars resembled scattered ink drops, and the Purple Forbidden Enclosure spun at the center of the sky, another world waiting silently. Most cultures believed that the sky was like a dome, a roof over the earth. Nny knew that it was only the beginning, the door to something far away and beyond his comprehension. The Lord and lady were in all places at all times, but he imagined that the night sky was their favorite dominion… he knew that he would choose it, given the choice.

"Where are you going?" the boy asked him.

"A place I don't want to go," Nny replied, softly.

Shuang looked at him, head tilted. "where do you want to go?"

"…Over the stars."

"My mother used to say that's where Shangdi lives… are you going to visit him?"

If only. What would he say to the God? He might ask for an explanation, for the reason behind his particular kind of existence. He might ask for companionship. He might beg for mortality, for a life and death of his own.

"Not exactly," the older man replied. "I want to be done with Gods. I want to be done with immortality, and divinity and obligation and humans. I don't want them."

The kid gave him a doubtful look. "Maybe it'd be easier to say what you _do_ want."

"Stars," his companion replied, "Stars and… love… and death."

"You're a strange guy, Ning," the boy informed him. "Maybe you'd be better off traveling west? Xi Wangmu can give immortality… maybe she can take it away too?"

Nny laughed. "Shangdi and Xi Wangmu won't help me. I am what I am."

"Oh."

Silence returned, and somewhere in the woods creatures rushed by. The wanderer wondered where he was going to take this kid, if he had no parents and his village didn't want him. Surely, someone would be willing to take in a boy child…

"What's really in the case?" Shuang asked, interrupting his thoughts.

Sighing, Nny picked up the bamboo tube and pulled the cork out, shook its contents into his lap. Scraps of silk with columns of Chinese characters, scrolls of papyrus with hieroglyphs running across the fabric, polished stones carved with shapes and into shapes, and his prized possessions: paintings, most on silk, depicting landscapes and faces, and characters from the myths he found most entrancing.

Shuang picked up on roll of fabric, opened it and his eyes went wide.

"Yaomo," he breathed, staring at the demons' contorted faces. "Is this Di Yu?"

Nny shook his head. "No, those are people and this is earth. People are more terrifying and dangerous than mythological monsters. The cruelties of mankind rival any torture in Di Yu."

"Yeah, maybe so," the boy agreed, tracing the outline of one figure. The lone human figure on the page, a weeping child with black eyes. "Who's this?"

_It's me_, the older man thought. But he couldn't bring himself to say so. "The unborn child," he replied instead.

"I don't want to go back to the village," Shuang confessed. "Orphans are bad luck, and no one will take me."

If no one behind them wanted the kid, then… maybe someone ahead would? Nny couldn't take care of him, but surely, surely someone else could and would—a childless couple, perhaps, or a temple? He must know of someone…

"I knew a man," Nny began, "who lived west and north of here. He was a potter, and he needed an apprentice to take on his work, but he had no son. It's on the way to the place I have to go, and if you wanted, I could take you to him."

Shuang made a non-committal noise. "How do you know he hasn't got a son now? How do you know he'll want me? Nobody wants me."

"It hasn't been long, and his wife is sterile anyways. He owes me, since I saved his life on my way here. Do you want me to take you or not?"

The fire popped, and Shuang nodded.

"I feel so small when I look up there," the boy said, gesturing towards the sky. "It doesn't seem to end… it just goes on and on, so far away… Does it make you feel small too?"

Nny said nothing. Truthfully, in that moment he felt tinier than the smallest insect. The universe stretched out around him, and for the first time in as long as he could remember, it felt huge and far beyond his comprehension. Perhaps it was something about the boy beside him, but tonight, he felt inescapably mortal. Like a child. Small.

"If you want to take me to that man," Shuang continued, "I'll go. But there's one condition."

Nny narrowed his eyes. "What's that?"

"You have to be my friend," the boy replied, looking quite serious. "You're lonely. You're nice—nicer than everybody in the village. Nicer than the cheng huang. Nice people shouldn't be lonely. So, you'll have to be my friend."

"You're quite serious?" the wanderer asked, brows raised. _Precocious little fucker_.

"Yeah. And I'll pray to Yuexia Laoren, so you can have somebody else after I leave. Kindness begets kindness, you know."

"Does it?" Nny mused, thinking of all the kindness he'd ever given or received. Not much, but someone had to start the cycle, he supposed.

"I don't think you want a wife, but maybe Yuexia Laoren can get you a different kind of partner? My mother used to say that the Gods worked slowly, so I'll pray for a really long time… I don't know how fast he'll get one to you, though."

"It's alright," Nny murmured, eyes resting on the moon, just visible between the branches overhead. "I have a long time to wait."

"What does it mean to be human?

I think I'm beginning to learn."

From the_ Song of Death_, attributed to Casil the Bard

*Ning: name meaning 'peace'

*Purple Forbidden Enclosure: a major Chinese constellation, around the northern celestial pole.

*Shangdi: (上帝) (lit. _Supreme Emperor_) is originally the supreme god, title/name later applied to the supreme deity of various religions, including _Yu Huang Dadi_ and the Christian God.

*Xi Wangmu: (西王母), the "Queen Mother of the West" who reigns over a paradisaical mountain and has the power to make others immortal.

*Cheng Huang (城隍), a class of protective deities: Each city has a Cheng Huang who looks after the fortunes of the city and judges the dead. Usually these are famous or noble persons from the city who were deified after death. The Cheng Huang Miao (城隍廟) or "Shrine of the Cheng Huang" was often the focal point of a town in ancient times.

*Yaomo: malevolent spirits or fallen celestial beings, most residents of the Chinese underworld

*Diyu: also known as 'difu', the underworld prison of Chinese folk religion

*Yuexia Laoren (月下老人 "Old Man Under the Moon"). The matchmaker who pairs lovers together, worshiped by those seeking their partner.


End file.
